


Save A Prayer

by jawnslulluby21



Series: Sometimes We Make Promises We Never Mean To Keep [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Johnloc - Freeform, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Rape/Non-con Elements, Teenlock, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1436362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawnslulluby21/pseuds/jawnslulluby21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where John Watson has been accepted into an academy for gifted students in the States. His talent is art and it is the first time the almost 16 year old has been away from his family.  Sherlock Holmes is a Vampyre and attends school when he feels like it. However, Sherlock's interest is piqued when he meets John Watson and things....as they do....go on from there...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Very sorry I have not finished my other 2 works that are in progress but this...this keeps rattling around my head and taking precedence over my other stories. I will finish my other 2 I promise but I need to write this one out. If you are disturbed by blood drinking or my ideas of Vampyres and what they can and cannot do, please move along. I don't really know what I am doing either but let's have some fun and angsty play!

John Watson clutched his faded leather backpack closer and scrunched down in the back seat of the airport taxi. He could hear his mother and his sister, Harry, babbling away about America and New York City but the words hardly registered enough to actually pay closer attention to them. Dark blue eyes stared out the window and he swallowed hard, trying to quell the nervousness that had threatened the past week to overwhelm him. Was it real? Was he really doing this?

A touch on his arm made him start. John turned his head to see his mother looking worriedly at him. He wondered what she had said to make her have such a look on her face then decided to just try to improvise without making her repeat herself and think that he was not listening.

"Ma? What's wrong?" John made his tone airy and light, belying the small tremors of fear that invaded his mind. He must not think like that! John clenched his fists and then relaxed them. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Oh it's nothing like that, my Johnny." John inwardly winced at the name that had been his since, well as long as he could remember anyways. Impassively, though, he still kept the small smile on his face. "I'm just thinking of how very much we will miss you, Harry and me."

"Oh Ma..." John patted her denim clad leg and caught his sister sticking her tongue out at him. John rolled his eyes and continued. "I am sure that Harry won't miss me at all. I'll probably come home for holiday and find out she has taken over my room."

"Nothing like that," Harry cooed. "But maybe your bike."

"My...bike??? Now see here, harry, you're not to ride my bike! It's MINE and I bought it with my own money and-" John was aware that his voice was rising.

"-And how are you going to know? I'll just take it for a spin or 2 or 3 and then put it back in the shed." Harry raised her eyebrows, the perfectly formed and plucked out asymmetrical brows of a future beauty queen in the making. John decided that some things were not worth fighting about so he changed the subject.

"My plane lands in Newark New Jersey at 13:15," John said, adjusting his backpack on his lap. He wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans. "I should be able to get a taxi no problem from there to the school and the dorm."

"Going over your itinerary is a good idea, Johnny." His mother squeezed one of his hands as her eyes threatened to well up with unshed tears.

"Ah, Ma, please don't cry." John nudged her and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'm almost 16 years old. I'll be fine."

"And you'll celebrate your birthday alone! your 16th!!! It's a special birthday, too. Means you're a man." Mrs. Watson seemed to be turning inconsolable and John wished for the hundredth time that day that the taxi would hurry the hell up to deposit him at Gatwick!

"Yes and as a MAN," John made sure to emphasize that word, "I can put up with no large party for the occasion. I'll just use some of my money and treat myself to dinner somewhere, or maybe go to a Broadway show. I've always wanted to see Blue Man group."

"They suck. Laura Peterson saw them with her school group last winter and she said she was bored to tears." John glared around his mother at his older by 3 years sister. He was kind of happy that he was leaving her behind as she had entered the era of boys, make up, and making out, if the noises he had heard coming from the back porch last week were any indication. He briefly wondered what his and Harry's lives would have been like had their father not succumbed to heart disease 3 years prior, but then better sense prevailed and John focused on the taxi coming up to the Departures terminal.

His mother tightened her hand on John's leg and John sighed and looked out the window. There were so many taxis and a few buses in the roundabout, all letting people off with their luggage and their backpacks! Truly now, in a few minutes, John's real adventure would start!

"Ma. The taxi's stopped. Come on. The driver will get mad if we don't hurry up." John opened his car door and held it so his mother could slide over and out, followed by his sister. Harry also had unshed tears glistening in her eyes and John hurriedly looked away so the lump in his throat would leave. With his head down, John gathered his one large suitcase stuffed full of clothes and his can't-leave-behind-art-supplies and put his backpack on top of it. Then he took a deep breath and engulfed his mother in a tight hug. She was crying, holding on to the front of his windbreaker with one hand while petting his brownish blondish unruly mop of hair with her other. Unbidden, he felt his own tears slide down his nose, and tickle his cheeks. "Ma. It's ok. I'll call when I get there."

"You remember to take good care of yourself, Johnny. Eat the food there. DON'T spend all of your money foolishly. Your scholarship should be able to pay for everything but incidentals, and I've taken it upon myself to help you out with those." She stuffed an envelope into the pocket of his jacket.

"No, Ma!" John scrambled away to get the envelope and give it back but he was stopped by Harry's hand on his arm. With A firm look that belied the tears falling from her blue eyes, she shook her head.

"Johnny, Ma and I want you to have this extra money. You go make something of yourself in NYC with all of those famous politicians and artists and actors! We are so proud of you! Just don't forget us!" She hugged him fiercely too, and the 3 of them stood embracing in a group hug until they heard the gruff harrumph of their driver.

"Call when you land. I will be waiting, Johnny. And mind you, change your pants every day!"

"MA!" John felt the blush creep up on his neck to his face. How old did she think he was again?

"We love you." His mother shook her finger at him in mock parenting while Harry blew him a kiss. John stood and waved as the taxi drove off and blended in with the myriad of vehicles now leaving the roundabout. He turned and squared his shoulders, then marched resolutely into the terminal.

 

In a brownstone on an historic street in the NYC borough of Brooklyn, Sherlock Holmes was bored. It wasn't as though he didn't have enough to keep him occupied; his room and his makeshift laboratory downstairs had enough gimmicks and gadgets to make a man at Cornell drool. And then there were the cold cases that his brother's friend, Greg Lestrade, a detective with the NYPD, had given him to work on but things just seemed to move at a snail's pace. Sherlock rose from his desk chair and pulled the curtain slightly to look out at the garden boulevard below. HIs mind moved quicker than sparks as he observed the neighbours--the Patersons were fighting again because he was sleeping on the couch in the spare room (light was on, no surprise there especially when the burly man was shagging his secretary); Mrs. Randall was walking her tiny poodle named FiFi without carrying along a bag to scoop up the dog's offerings (Sherlock made a mental note to avoid that side of the street when walking); and Mrs. Hudson next door was baking something good. Steam was rising out of her kitchen window and Sherlock watched as the vapour trailed lazily to the night sky. Speaking of food, how long had it been since he had eaten? His brain took an abrupt shift as his lips moved silently counting the days. 2. No, wait, 4! 4 days and maybe a half thrown in for good measure. Stomach awake and growling now, Sherlock sighed and moved gracefully out his bedroom door and down the hallway, down the steps, through the family room and out into the kitchen where, to his surprise, his brother was sitting, looking at the paper in front of him. A steaming cup of some kind of tea was in front of the paper, so Sherlock picked it up and took a healthy sniff, his nose crinkling.

"Chai tea, Sherlock. There's some brewed if you want it." Mycroft Holmes droned quietly, his eyes not looking up from the rather official looking paper he was studying.

"I was looking for something a bit more...substantial is all," Sherlock muttered and opened the refrigerator door. He saw the usual items--milk, condiments, something in a covered dish that smelled like potatoes, soda, leftover Chinese still in their tiny take out boxes, and in the back, a large pitcher of dark coloured liquid. "Oh, has that been..blended?"

"No. Raw form. Please do eat. You don't look well."

Sherlock stared at his older by 7 years brother and shrugged. "Have I ever looked well? I can't really remember  a time I have. Well, maybe when I was born. Although..." Sherlock's voice trailed off as he reached for the blender and poured some of the thick red liquid into it. The blood smeared down the sides of the container and Sherlock resisted the urge to lick it off. Instead, he opened the freezer and found the vanilla ice cream. He scooped three large scoops of Breyer's French vanilla  into the blender container, added some milk, cinnamon and an egg, and capped it, then turned it on. "I remember that Mama said I was a GOOD baby, unlike you, Mycroft," he said smirking.

"Just because I had some colic doesn't necessarily mean I was a 'bad' baby. There are varying degrees of bad and good you know."

"So which ones are we?" Sherlock asked, not looking at Mycroft but instead pouring his concoction into a big tumblr which he then set on the table complete with a bendy straw.

"Which ones are we...what...?" Mycroft's concentration broke and he stared at his brother.

"Oh do keep up, Mycroft!" Sherlock huffed. Taking a large suck of the blended goo, Sherlock kept his blue silver coloured eyes on the older man.

"If you are referring specifically to the genetics of us, then I have your answers. But as far as the creation, I am afraid that it's a blank canvas." Mycroft went back to studying his paper.

"Are you reading the ink off that?" Sherlock snapped churlishly. He took another big straw full and swallowed. Already his cold body was warming up. He supposed he should have come down sooner.

"A treaty of sorts," Mycroft answered absently. "It's interesting to assume that there are warring factions in this huge city, but I suppose there could be. We aren't going to get involved, Sherlock, so don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" Sherlock looked down into the glass. Blood was sometimes hard to blend but he had done a right good job on this batch. "Not looking at you."

"But you're thinking and that could prove dangerous." Mycroft sighed and folded the paper up, then enclosed it in an envelope that was on the table. "Now then. How long has it since you've been to school?"

"I dunno."

"Then let me answer that for you. It's been a week. 5 days, Sherlock. They've called and you know how that always upsets Mummy. Even if it was just the end of summer school, we had enrolled you and you had a commitment to continue with it."

"Not my area," Sherlock shrugged and finished his drink. He patted the corners of his mouth with a napkin and avoided the blazing eyes of his brother. "OK, alright, fine. I'll go Monday. Start the week off right. Make me an excuse so they don't come knocking again. Paying a fine is so tedious."

"You never pay the fines, Sherlock. I DO." Mycroft pushed his chair out and stared at his brother for a long moment. Sherlock stared back just as defiantly until Mycroft looked away and nodded. "Yes, new semester and the crows should be there for you to ogle."

With that, Sherlock stood and rinsed his glass in the sink. With nary a look back at a silent but annoyed looking Mycroft, Sherlock skipped upstairs and settled down to examine a piece of brain that he had found at a murder scene. It wouldn't stay fresh like it was without some formaldehyde and Sherlock had no intention of ruining it by chemical means. No, this was going to take him all night and for that, he was grateful for giving his brain something to do.

 

John settled into his new life fairly quickly, if one weekend meant quickly. The plane ride was long--almost 9 hours--but he got to sit by a window and entertained himself by sketching in his composite note pad. His seatmate had liked his sketch of her so well she had paid him money for it and he found himself grateful for the extra fifty when his taxi driver had probably scalped him on the fare to his dorm. Once at St. Damien's, John was greeted by an orientation leader and shown around campus, including to his new home away from home in the guise of a small but serviceable wood paneled room with 2 single beds, 2 identical 4 drawer dressers, 2 smallish wall closets, 2 replica desks, and 2 chairs, both of sturdy plastic wood. There was a shower and toilet facility just down the hall from his room; it serviced the 6 boys, him included, that lived on the far end of Byron Hall.

HIs roommate was a jovial fellow named Mike Stamford, a senior whereas John was just a sophomore, but he was friendly and stuck out his hand in a solid greeting. Once the Orient leader was gone, John and Mike sat and got to know each other, then Mike helped John unpack and set up his work easel in the corner by the one window. Mike was there for a music scholarship; his instrument of choice was the trombone although he could also play any brass instrument really.

John immersed himself in the welcoming activities that had been organized and put on by the seniors of St. Damien's Academy, and he met some like minded boys like himself. At one gathering, while he was touring the music building with Mike, a rather large fellow with sandy blond hair and the biggest hands John had ever seen began to insinuate himself on the 2 boys, introducing himself as Sebastian Moran and wondering if John was interested in making some extra money on the side, since Sebastian had guessed correctly that John was on full scholarship. When Mike poked John surreptitiously and shook his head just the tiniest bit, John had thanked the older boy and continued to walk with the tour, pretending he did not feel those eyes boring into his back.

Finally. Monday came and the first day of his classes with it. John was thrilled. He felt like he had hit the lottery in coming to America, especially some place like NYC and he was eager to try the fit on for size. His first block of classes were always the same--Literature, Math, and Science. His afternoon block this semester were Pencil and Sketch 2, Illustration, and Beginning Oils. Out of all of them John was anxious to get acquainted with Beginning Oils, as he had never had the opportunity to work with them and he had an idea in mind to try. He hoped there would be numerous projects he could immerse himself into and put on canvas all of his thoughts and schemes and dreams.

John had always thought differently than most of his friends. He supposed he was like his father in that aspect. His mother, bless her soul, had held the family together through all of his dad's odd jobs and inventions for sale. John used to love spending time in his father's workshop in the shed out back of their old house, before his father had become ill and before John's world had gone to hell.

Enough of that, John Hamish Watson, he told himself sternly as he walked to the ivy covered brick building that housed the English/Lit classrooms. He was soon to be 16 years old and the world, this world, was his oyster. He could hear his mother saying in her tired voice 'no regrets, Johnny' and this made him practically march up the stairs and through the doors.

 

Sherlock balanced his backpack on his back and adjusted the straps. It was a cloudless day that was proving to be warmer than usual and for this reason, he had not worn his usual long wool coat with the red buttonholes. Instead, he had opted for a light windbreaker and jeans, and his usual Oxford shirt and suit jacket. He liked to be well dressed; he had jeans, a whole closet full, but they were all designer and brand names. Not even a Levis in his wardrobe! The suit jacket made him feel less vulnerable to his classmates' prying eyes because they did like to stare, the stupid prats.

First class was always boring and Sherlock had never been on time once in the three years he had been attending the school. Mycroft had made him go when Sherlock had caused some problems at their home, almost blowing up the basement by mixing caustic chemicals. After a while, Sherlock decided that school was never going to teach him anything he didn't already know but in fact there was maybe university to think about. A whole new setting to get to know. Now THAT piqued his interest. So off to high school Sherlock went, majoring in drama because he could not think of anything else he wanted to try. Before when he was...what was the word...unturned...normal...living...he had been a student at a prestigious boarding school in Wales. He was in his sophomore year before he turned seriously ill. The prognosis for him was not good at all and he was planning his funeral when he had met Mycroft Holmes. The older man was looking for a family of sorts, a good cover so he could run for political office, and Sherlock fit the bill as his younger brother. The process of Turning had been grueling and if Sherlock hadn't been dead already, it would have killed him. But at the same time, it had saved his life and Sherlock had become Sherlock Holmes, brother of Mycroft, son of Violet and Benjamin Holmes, and beloved grandson of Muriel Holmes-Jarmais. And aside from having to ingest the blood that Mycroft paid for to the willing 'cows' (they called them that because they allowed the organization that sold blood to the Vampyres to milk their veins) it was a good life. He could stay up late without being tired. He could run fast, jump high, even fly, although he was not too good at that yet. And smart, well his brain was firing constantly and Sherlock felt like he couldn't cram in one more piece of knowledge until he did and it was all right then.

Sherlock parked and locked his bike on the rack outside the English/Lit building and scanned the incoming crowd for new faces. There were several he wanted to avoid if he could and he did not sense them near so they must be still either sleeping or skipping. More likely, Sherlock thought, skipping. Adjusting his jacket (he had discarded the windbreaker in to his backpack), Sherlock walked silently up the steps and into the long hallway leading to his first class.

John was picking out a desk. He stood somewhat nervously at the front of the room. Seemed that from the seated groups of boys that there were several established cliques already; perhaps the boys knew each other for a while through school. John gripped his straps tighter and his eye caught an empty desk towards the back next to the windows, so he trudged over and slid in, placing his backpack beside him. As he bent to open the zipper of the compartment that held his pens and pencils, he heard a small sound like a clearing of a throat. John looked up towards the sound.

"You are in my seat."

John stared mouth agape at the boy in front of him. Truthfully his outline was lit from the sun in the windows but he was a man of beauty! The dark curls that tapered around a very thin long face, the multi coloured irises that were looking at him like he was a pebble under a shoe, the slender body that looked like a reed with hands and feet...John somehow muffled his gasp and scrunched up his nose, causing wrinkles on his brow.

"Your seat? Sorry I was here first." John leaned back and hid a smile. What was wrong with him! He was never this cheeky especially to someone he didn't know!

"I always sit there. I have for the last 2 years. My seat. This is my seat."

"Bugger off, Sherlock Holmes!" came a voice in the back and if Sherlock was listening, he gave no inclination.

"My. Seat. My seat." The voice was pleasant and lilting and John was pleased that Sherlock was British also, a fact that he was going to share when Sherlock's hand came down on the back of John's neck and pressed just so, making John drop his pen and silently scream. Oh that hurt so bad! "Out. WHoever you are, you are in my seat."

"OK!" John managed to squeak and only then did the hand leave his neck. John rubbed it with one hand while he gathered up his backpack and made a  move to stand up. But the door slammed shut and a teacher, clad in the traditional dark blue robes of St. Damien's Academy, took his place in the centre of the front, in back of the podium. John heard the boy who had grabbed him mutter a curse and slide in the seat in front of John. As Sherlock moved, John caught a whiff of his cologne and he immediately felt his pulse escalate. It smelled like the forest, John thought, and moss and shade and the moon and some kind of spice.

"Alright, everyone! Please be quiet and bear with me. My name is Samuel Perkins and I am going to be taking you through the life and times of the Canterbury Tales. "

John heard no more after that because his head was swimming in the sea of scent and he was not coming up for air. He was immediately intrigued and  baffled and curious and attracted. Sherlock. What was his last name? Homes? No, HOLMES. Sherlock Holmes. And a fellow Brit like himself. The neck thing though that was a bit not good and John intended, after class, to have a word with Sherlock about that. As Dr. Perkins droned on, John stared at the back of the strange boy in front of him and wondered what it would be like to kiss that authoritative smirk off his face.


	2. Night Boat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John pursues his mysterious classmate with somewhat dire consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really fun to write and I hope everyone likes it. I am a bit nervous because I have never written an angsty kind of Teenlock before.

Dr. Perkins proved to be a formidable speaker and right up to the end of class with the bell ringing, he managed to spit out an assignment, too.  John sighed and marked it down carefully in his notebook and then looked up to see that Sherlock Holmes had somehow bolted from the room as John was writing. With another long sigh, John stood and gathered up his things, then re checked his schedule card to make sure that Mathematics was held in Riker Hall, across the way from the one he was presently in. John craned his neck to look at the campus map to the right of the entrance and saw it was a pretty far walk to the other end of the block. Sighing, John wished for not the first time to have brought his bike with him especially when he saw a lot of the other students whizzing by on their Schwins or their RoughRIders. John made sure to follow one of the basic rules of campus and that was to make sure to walk to the right of the path and let the bikes pass on the left, by the streets. Still it was not enough to keep his distance from the bikes because suddenly, he was hit from behind and left sprawling on the pavement, backpack somehow coming around and cushioning his fall. John heard some laughter from behind him and, embarrassed and slightly pissed off, stood and brushed off his pants. Tentatively he touched his lip and his hand came away with a smear of blood on it. As he bent his head down, more droplets of blood fell and hit the concrete of the walk.

"Fuck." John shifted his backpack up and rubbed his jacket clad arm across his face. Nothing hurt. Yet. Perhaps later it would but right now, all he wanted to do was to hit the loo before class and try to look presentable. First day of classes, he thought, and Watson, you have to fuck it up. His resolve not to do anything else that could be perceived as stupid was steady now and he hurried towards RIker Hall.

Sherlock had seen the bicyclist run into the smallish boy with the cerulean blue eyes. Even though the boy had tried his patience in Lit, Sherlock felt sorry when the cyclist had ...deliberately?...run into him, even as the boy had kept on to the right of the path. As Sherlock pedaled closer, his nostrils flared when he smelled the coppery familiar scent of blood. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Sherlock approached the spot where the boy had been hit from behind and stopped his bike. People went around him and he was content to just ignore them, feeling their presences but not really acknowledging them. Long pale fingers reached out to poke the small reservoirs of blood, then up to his pink Cupid bow shaped lips where the bloodied tip was licked by a curious tongue. The result was instantaneous.

Sherlock gasped and felt his head whirling. Inside was chaos. Outside his hands flew to his ears and pressed hard. Sight was multi coloured and all around him was a loud buzz when he couldn't hear anything couldn't see nothing couldn't go forwards or backwards---

"SHERLOCK!"

Mycroft. Sherlock stopped, faux heart pounding behind his ribs. The world came into focus and he looked around him, at the greens of the grass and the leaves on the trees. People came and went, some sidling close to where he was standing and some going out of their way to avoid him and his bike. Sweat peeked on his brow. It was ...a human reaction, one that he had not had for a long time.

"PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER!"

Sherlock sighed and reluctantly left the remains of the boy's blood behind. What he did know now was that he could find the boy anywhere. And he intended to do just that.

 

John rubbed the wet paper towel over his forehead and around his split lip. Truthfully, it hurt and the cut on his forehead had kept bleeding even when he pressed the wadded towels against it. if he had to go to the infirmary (where was that even??), he would be pissed at himself. He didn't have time for this nonsense and he was stubborn enough to try to solve his own troubles. The door to the loo squeaked open and he glanced up at the mirror where he was met with those same strangely coloured eyes as he had seen in Lit. Sherlock!

John felt the breath rush into his lungs and he huffed a bit as he turned around. Sherlock wasn't meeting his gaze but instead his eyes (those beautiful strange crazy coloured intense magical) were fixated on John's forehead where the bloody towels clung to the oozing wound.

"Hey." John smiled a bit and held out his one hand that wasn't holding the towels to his head. "We got off on the wrong foot but I think we can square away now. My name's John Watson. And you're British!"

"Wonderful deductions, Watson. Are you going to get treatment for that?" He jerked his head towards John's forehead.

"Um, I was going to wait til Math was over. Then I have to find out where the uh infirmary is..." John pulled his hand back. Sherlock wasn't going to even shake his hand!

"Go on and take my bike. It's the blue one parked outside. The combination is 221. Ride along Parkside until you get to Murray. Infirmary is the big grey building that looks like a parking garage. I'll tell Mr. Hendershot that you're injured and need medical attention. Don't tarry. Perhaps you can be back before the end of the class." The whole time Sherlock spoke, John noticed his eyes did not leave John's forehead.

"Um uh ok are you sure, Sherlock?" John paused and then felt the steely grip of Sherlock's hand as he held John's arm.

"Go now. Before something further happens."

"Yeah ok right." John backed away and headed towards the door, keeping Sherlock in sight. The door opened again and 3 boys came in, all talking rapidly in Italian. John had no idea what they were saying but Sherlock responded to them in like and smiled beatifically at one who had long dark hair and looked like an angel. John felt an unbidden pang of jealousy but quickly retreated outside to the bike rack where he saw a magnificent Alpine racer in a bright blue colour. It was the nicest bike he had ever seen and he suddenly felt privileged to ride it. What was the lock combination? Oh right, 221. He clicked it open, wound the chain around the bag and put his feet on the pedals that seemed to be made out of soft rubber. He followed Sherlock's directions and found the infirmary, got 3 stitches in his forehead and one in the inside of his lower lip, some ibuprofen, and warnings to ice it lest he have a huge bruise. John thought that perhaps it was too late for ice, but took the pack from the nurse and then enjoyed his ride on the smooth as silk bicycle back to Riker Hall and his Math class.

John hesitated, then knocked on the door. He hoped that Sherlock had told the instructor why he was so tardy but when Mr. Hendershot opened the classroom door, he just waved John in and kept talking. John kept his head down and looked around the class, hoping that maybe Sherlock had even saved a seat for him but no, there was Sherlock with his head down, sitting at one of the desks by the windows, and every seat around him was occupied. John felt a pang of regret but scuttled over to the last row by the door and slipped into a seat third one back from the front of the room. The girl beside him gave an audible "oh" when she looked at John's forehead and then smiled at him. She moved her book over so John could see where they were in reference to the discussion so he nodded a curt thanks and then tried to understand the X axis as opposed to the Y axis. Math was always hard for him and he wondered not for the first time why precisely he needed it since all he wanted to do was to draw and paint and create!

The class dragged and by the end, John felt he knew nothing more than when he had first walked in. But he waited around because he wanted to thank Sherlock for giving the professor the heads up and more importantly for allowing him to use that expensive bike to get to the infirmary! Sherlock was gathering his papers and when he looked up, his eyes met John's for a brief second before Sherlock ducked his head down and hurried out, not bothering a second glance at John.

"Sherlock! Hey! Wait!" John rushed after him, catching him by the slender arm and spinning the other boy around. The look on Sherlock's face made John drop his hand quickly and back up a couple of steps. Sherlock just looked....fierce...no other word for it. There was anger, surprise, and distance all in that formidable face. John felt like the earth should just drop out beneath his Nike clad feet.

"Leave. Me. Alone." Sherlock fairly hissed though clenched teeth.

"I just wanted to say...um...thank you for letting me use your bike, Mate." John stammered.

"I don't have MATES." With that, Sherlock was gone, leaving John to stand there with the stupid soggy ice pack dripping from his hand.

 

"Hey MIke?"

"Hmmm?"

"What do you know about some kid named Sherlock Holmes?" John rolled over on his bed and propped his head up with his hand, elbow bent in front of him. At the mention of the boy's name, Mike looked up startled, and pushed his glasses up on his nose.

"How did you know about him? He in some of your classes?" Mike asked carefully his tone belying his expression.

"Oh my God, what? What? Mike, what???? Is he ...I dunno..some kind of weirdo?" John laughed now but suddenly turned serious when he noticed that Mike was still serious.

"He's bad news is what he is. No friends. A real loner. His family has money. His older brother is the Ambassador from England. They live in New Holland off Baker. Rich house. BIG house. He gets to skip all the school he wants because his family is rich and yet he lands every leading role in the drama productions. Heard he got the lead in Into The Woods."

"Have you ever...met him?" John asked. Sherlock? An actor? No wonder he was so temperamental. John supposed that was a good reason why Sherlock had acted that way.

"A couple of times when I was in Orchestra for the shows. He's odd. Always sniffing things and looking at you like he can see through you. And then there's his clothes. The guy thinks he's a regular David Beckham always wearing fancy suits and the like."

"Hmm." John hummed and laid back on his bed. "He's in 2 of my classes."

"Well I wouldn't expect to see him much. He skips a lot." Mike went back to polishing his trombone. John thought it looked just fine but there was Mike with the polishing cloth again.

"Oh." John shrugged like he didn't care but secretly he hoped that Sherlock's attendance would become regular so he could just LOOK at the beautiful git.

 

Mycroft was deep in discussion with the finance minister of France when the door slammed almost making the whole house shake. The tall man sighed and did his very best to ignore the stomping around of his little brother, first on the stairs, (2 trips up and down both flights) and then into the wooden floors of the family room, out to the deck, where the patio doors also got a beating, and then the slamming of the dishwasher door to end the performance.

When finally Mycroft was done with the state of the Euro, he checked his phone for more messages and seeing none, walked out to the kitchen where Sherlock was throwing together a salad, and by throwing it was literally that. Spinach littered the counter, olive juice was everywhere and the bag of cheese looked like it had been in a carnival shooting gallery.

"What..is this? This mishava?" Mycroft arched an elegant eyebrow and got the handi wipe from the drawer.

"Nothing." Sherlock continued to pound the broccoli spears (were they quivering, Mycroft thought) and then cut them up until they were slivers of their former selves. "Something. Oh fuck. Everything."

"Talk to me, Sherlock." Mycroft gently placed his hands on Sherlock's thin shoulders, feeling the hard bones of the boy through the shirt and jacket he wore.

Sherlock kept his eyes downcast but when he suddenly looked up at his brother, they were full of...what, Mycroft thought, confusion? "It's this boy. In school. I have 3 classes with him! Lit, Math. Science, although I skipped Science."

"You skipped...Sherlock! We have had this talk before. In fact it was last night."

"I know I know but I couldn't even..I tasted him! Mycroft, I TASTED him!!! And he was ...so good..sweet and sad and earthy and just...good. It was like, I dunno, like the best heroin I ever had."

"How the hell did you manage to taste him?" Mycroft was almost shouting now. It was agreed that Sherlock was never...NEVER ...to bite anyone, let alone a student in the very school where he went.

"No, no, Mycroft, it wasn't like that..I ..he got pushed down on the walk and bled and I was just curious so I ..tasted it." Sherlock's eyes now filled with unshed tears and Mycroft nodded and pulled the slender tall boy into a hug. To his surprise, Sherlock returned it just as fiercely.

"Well now you've done it, you know." Mycroft said softly but equally as ominous.

"What?" Mycroft felt Sherlock stiffen in his arms. "What do you mean?"

"You'll turn into a Ghoul, Sherlock. Flying above the houses at night, never satisfied, always following the scents of humans, wanting to rip their throats open and--"He heard Sherlock gasp and then break down, his body shaking as he cried. "Oh shit...Sherlock, listen. I am kidding. I AM KIDDING!!! I just made that up." Mycroft pulled Sherlock's head up with one finger under the boy's chin and clucked. "But you have just taken the first step towards bonding with him and that is dangerous."

'Dangerous? How so?" Despite his sniffing and snorting, Sherlock was curious.

"Dangerous because this boy is your drug of choice now. Stay away from him. For your own sake, Sherlock."

"Yeah." Sherlock nodded more to himself than Mycroft. "You're right."

 

3 hours later and Sherlock was poised on the outside of the attic dormer window. Down below was the circular driveway into their house and the garden boulevard stretched beyond that. His feet clung to the ledge as his coat lay around him like a blanket of warm wool. He swallowed hard and then let himself tumble over the edge, long arms outstretched to his sides like an airplane, his coat now billowing behind him like a cape. The ground seemed reasonably close and then up he went as he closed his eyes and reached out his mind's tendrils to John Watson, remembering the taste of blood on his tongue like a brand. On its own violation, his body knew the way from his mind's eyes, and abruptly he found himself outside the newest dorm building on the east end of St. Damien's. It wasn't a huge building as dorms go, and Sherlock knew that the school had wanted more floors but simply run out of money and had settled for a 3 story. It was fairly easy to access the door with an all purpose swipe card that Sherlock had nicked from the janitorial department, and as he moved through the lobby, he slipped quietly by the sleeping desk attendant and up the east stairway to the third floor where he knew John Watson was sleeping.

Quietly so quietly like a dream, Sherlock moved down the hallway keeping to the side in case any of the sleeping boys had to venture to the loo at this hour. He was lucky enough not to encounter anyone, and he shook his head to dismiss the snores and the sleep sounds of the other people in the hallway. John Watson. Just John Watson. At last he was in front of the door, #306, but there was another presence, another boy with John and although his scent was not unpleasant, he was definitely interfering with Sherlock's enjoyment of John Watson. With a disgusted look on his handsome face, Sherlock pressed against the door, aware that his canines were growing and itching. Swallowing quickly, Sherlock released the lock and felt the tumblrs give way so he could enter.

The room was full of John Watson's scent and Sherlock tried to inhale it all at once. His head spun momentarily but the scent of the other boy kept him from going off the rails. Creeping close to the bed where John Watson slept, Sherlock reached down and with one pale trembling finger, brushed the boy's neck, then brought up the finger to his lips to his teeth to his mouth where he nibbled the scent and almost fell to his knees with the taste. What would it taste like to actually run his tongue along that tanned golden skinned neck, he wondered and then knelt, his coat enveloping him as he stared at John Watson. Mine, he thought. Mine and no one else's. His upper body trembled as he leaned forwards and with just the faintest of touches, licked a warm strip of skin by John's collarbone, where his tee shirt had pulled away.

Sherlock groaned audibly then covered his own mouth with his hand as he saw John Watson stir slightly. Every sense that was so tuned in to everywhere around him was muffled by the taste of John Watson and Sherlock's feet seemed glued to the spot. His head was exploding in pure joy with the taste in his mouth but he would ruin it if John Watson were to wake up.

Luck was with him. John Watson just turned over and threw an arm up above his head, above his pillow. Sherlock saw the blue stripes of veins in that tanned strong arm and knew if he didn't leave now he would do something he would regret. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock turned and slid out the door, shutting it with the barest of noise, then unlatched the end hall window, perched on the edge, still tasting John Watson's deliciousness in his mouth, and fell forward, flying home with his coat as protector.


	3. Ordinary World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is surprised when Sherlock and his brother square off in the guidance office. Contains a homophobic slur. if you are offended please do not read and please know I in no way condone that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still working away. I wish there were more hours in the day so I could just write. It's difficult when RL butts its way in front of a good head of writing steam!

Breakfast at Dublin Centre was anything but a great event. If there was any one thing John didn't like about the school, it was the food. Course selections usually ran the gamut of a meat (which he did not eat, having sworn off the foul stuff at the tender age of 14 after reading Animal Farm), a vegetable (canned usually) and a fruit or dessert. One could always have salad bar, which John usually hit a couple of times during lunch and dinner, but breakfast was simple and less than filling for a growing boy on the cusp of 16 years old.

"Wish I could import a Starbucks," John moaned to Mike as he watched the older boy scarf down an egg and sausage muffin. John thought perhaps that particular sausage concoction was Mike's third but who was counting?

"Yeah, that'd be boss eh? Get a nice latte or a crème tea. They also have good cinna rolls. My Mum always gets me a box when she goes there." Mike wiped his mouth and then downed his milk.

"Think she'd do a food run if we asked her?" John pushed his tray away, his scrambled eggs untouched.

"You aren't eating those?" Mike asked hopefully. With a good natured sigh, John nodded, giving Mike the go ahead to act as his plate cleaner. "They're not bad. How do you expect to grow any if you don't eat?"

"Mike..." John raised one eyebrow and grinned. Mike was starting to be more familiar with John and had found a weak spot, that being John's height or lack thereof. "Don't be cheeky!"

"Cheeky's all I got, Kid." Mike winked and patted at his mouth with a napkin. His eyes behind his spectacles grew large when he saw the look on John's face. "What is it?"

Suddenly, a large hand clamped down on Mike's shoulder. The boy coughed and flew forward from the force of it, his nose hitting the plate of unfinished scramble. John glared and got up, coming around the other side of the table where Mike sat, still with Sebastian Moran's hand on his shoulder, still bent down.

"Leave him alone. Take your hand off his shoulder." John felt his hands clenching with anger. The older and quite larger boy, complete with an entourage behind him, began to laugh but took his hand away.

"Oh Johnny Watson. You ARE an enigma. And here my best mate thought you'd be boring." Sebastian looked back at his cronies who laughed like it was the best joke.

"First of all, you don't scare me. You and your..." John waved a dismissive hand, "flunkies."

"Flunkies is it?" And for a moment Sebastian's eyes grew dark and hateful as he stared at John.

"Forget it, John. Let's leave." Mike started to get up but John stood stubbornly behind him and his friend had no choice but to remain seated lest he try to occupy the same space as John.

"No. We aren't ready. You haven't finished and I want to sit here and drink my tea. Now as I see it...Sebastian..." And the way John said the other boy's name read as distasteful, "you can either join us and share our conversation, or fuck off."

There was a moment of silence in the cafeteria. Every eye watched as John, smaller and wiry, stood his ground against the school bully and his crew. After several seconds, Sebastian began to laugh and clapped a hand on John's shoulder, who immediately tried to get away but the grip was tight and almost painful.

"Johnny, I gotta hand it to you. You might not be smart, but you're brave." He stared coldly at John who lifted his chin and defiantly glared. "This won't be the last time we see each other."

"I can always give you my mobile number if you want to set up a date." John's anger was controlled but the look on his face made Sebastian loosed his grip then take his hand away.

"Come on, boys. Let's let Piggy and his homo friend eat this garbage." With a snap of his fingers, the whole herd of MoranMinions turned and followed Sebastian to another part of the cafeteria.

"Holy shit, John!! Holy shit..." Mike mopped his sweaty face with his napkin and put a hand over his chest.

"Mike. You are too young to have a heart attack. Knock it off. If they see fear they're just going to harass you all the more." John sat back down and facing his friend, gave Mike's hand a pat. "They're total assholes. Just ignore them."

"Yeah." Mike sighed and picked at his eggs, then stood with the tray in his hands. "Guess I'm not hungry any more."

 

"God, Mycroft! Might I remind you that I am not your real brother, that is flesh and blood." Sherlock twisted his arm in an effort to get away from Mycroft, who kept his grip tight on Sherlock's elbow.

"Blood? Funny you should say that." Mycroft grinned coldly at Sherlock and knocked politely at the door to the Guidance Office. There was a muffled answer, then the door opened and the counselor, a young woman named Irene Adler, looked both Holmeses up and down.

"Well. What a pleasure. If it isn't Ambassador Mycroft Holmes and the star of this year's drama presentation, Prince Charming, rather Sherlock Holmes. Do come in," she purred, holding the door wider. Just as they were being ushered into her office, John walked into the reception area, holding one of his admit slips and frowning at it as if it were written in a foreign language. He looked up, his guileless blue eyes opening wider when he saw Sherlock, who flashed a quick grin at him and then disappeared into the depths of the office as the door shut.

Sherlock sat down, a bit dazed, forgetting his argument with Mycroft. It was one of many, though so it didn't really matter except this time, his 'brother' wanted Sherlock to take harder, more academically challenging courses, something Sherlock didn't really want to do. He actually knew more than the professors who spouted their regurgitated information from a textbook. None of them had ever actually held a live beating human heart in their hands, now had they?

And then there was John Watson. The boy looked a bit bruised up, with the cut on his forehead turning a shade of purple/puce and his lip swollen from the suture, but he was still quite saucy and appealing, even in those appalling cheap knock off jeans and an oversized striped jumper of poor material. Sherlock wondered what John would look like in quality clothes, something from Hugo Boss maybe or Ralph Lauren. Suddenly he jumped. Mycroft was shouting in his head and Sherlock looked peevishly at the older man, seated next to Miss Pulver, who in turn was staring at Mycroft. Sherlock sighed.

"Is this meeting going to be conducted in a civilized manner or shall I leave you 2 to whatever indiscreet activities you would like to pursue?"

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was low but threatening. Sherlock sighed again, this time louder. Mycroft ignored his histrionics and addressed the lovely buxom guidance counselor. "Now then, my little brother seems to be mired in classes that are boring for him. He knows a lot more than the general academia  and  trust me when I say he needs a challenge. Is there any way we can get him out of those general Lit and Math classes to something more...specialized?"

"I don't want to leave my classes. I like them, Mycroft." Sherlock slumped down in the chair he was sitting in, long legs in front of him like a resting stork. His curls were hanging loosely around his thin pale face and his eyes fluttered shut in annoyance. "Besides, I'll just cause trouble if you transfer me."

"I assure you, Ms. Pulver, my brother will not only be diligent in his academic duty but also will preform above and beyond expectation. I know it's late to reschedule but...well, you see my point. My brother can be...difficult."

"Oh I can see that. Perhaps the adage of spoiling the child and sparing the rod is what happened in his formative years." She smiled at Sherlock who rolled his eyes.

"Or perhaps your panties are wet just from the thought of beating me with a riding crop." Sherlock accentuated the 'p' in crop so it popped.

"Sherlock! Apologise this instant!" Mycroft's mouth was a tight line of anger.

"No. It's what she's thinking. Why should I say I'm sorry for something she wants to do. Hardly sporting, Mycroft." Sherlock looked at his watch and arched an eyebrow elegantly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for drama practice. Ms. Pulver---Lara--" Sherlock mock bowed and then looked icily at Mycroft. "Let me remain in my classes for this semester and if they get too boring, I'll transfer mid session. Good day."

Sherlock hid a smile as he ducked out of the office, only to find John sitting tensely on a chair outside in the lounge area, his eyes wide and amused. He must have heard the whole exchange, Sherlock thought quickly, reaching out carefully with a mind tendril to see if he was right in his assumption. Sure enough, John was repeating what Sherlock had told the lecherous woman and Sherlock could feel the little thrills of titillation in John's head.

"Boring. Want to go get some real coffee? I nicked Mycroft's car keys." Sherlock held out a set of keys and smirked. John began to laugh for real, and nodded.

"Except we could get into some real trouble doing that." The saner side of John Watson surfaced. "Your brother's gonna get mad."

"Let him." Sherlock shrugged. "Come on!!" With that, and a dramatic whirl of the almost ankle length coat that the thin boy wore, he was off down the hall, leaving John almost jogging to catch up with him. "DO try to keep up, John. I'd hate to go to a coffee shop alone."

"You walk pretty fast." John mock scowled then shot a glance at the boy beside him. "I thought you were mad at me. Ya know, from that speech the other day."

"If you expect explanation or apologies you will get neither, John. Don't be boring." Sherlock turned towards a sleek BMW parked in a Visitor spot and he clicked the key on the ring. "I know the combination to get in. I know how to make it run. Mycroft underestimates me all the time."

"You must be very clever, then." John slid in and marveled at the leather under his butt. The seat was even starting to get warm as the engine hummed.

"Standard features on a Beemer. Myself, I like Mummy's Jag better." Sherlock yawned and reversed the car, then hit the accelerator when he saw Mycroft come hurrying out of the building.

"Oh no, there's your brother!" John gasped and looked at the older man throwing his arms up in the air. "He looks pissed."

"Wah." Sherlock headed towards the front gate, down the tree lined lane, and powered out into the merging highway. "John, do put your chin back where it belongs. Can't have you gaping like an idiot."

"Sorry." John was indeed sitting there open mouthed and as he straightened up to look out the window, he glanced at the driver. Blimey but Sherlock was so beautiful! He started to blush, admonishing himself for even thinking something like that, but there was something about the pale skin and the aristocratic features that were just so fucking gorgeous! Sherlock looked out the corner of his eye and John hurried to stare at the passing scenery. "Do you live in ...Brooklyn too?"

"Oh come now John. Surely your roommate Michael Stamford has told you all about me. The question is, who are you? What makes John Watson tick? Besides fighting with Sebastian Moran in the cafeteria?"

"How did you...were you there?" John asked breathlessly.

"Word travels fast." Sherlock turned on the blinker and pulled into a large sit alone Starbucks. "Will this do?"

"Yeah, I mean, geezus this is a big place!" John shook his head and then remembered how little cash he had in his pockets. He was not in the habit of carrying around a lot of money and he had left his ATM card in the room.

"Don't worry. I'm good for the tab." Sherlock waited until John had got out of the Beemer and the 2 of them strolled into the coffee house, Sherlock holding the door for John who trailed in his wake. "Pick something to eat, too, if you want. "

"What are you going to have?" John studied the menu, holding back for something inexpensive.

"Seriously, John. I have money. Look." Sherlock held up a leather embossed wallet. John's eyes grew wide again as he saw the 'M' initial on it.

"You didn't...take...your brother's wallet did you???" John asked somewhat breathlessly. Sherlock simply smiled and John couldn't help but return it. Sherlock hooked his arm in with John's and pulled him towards the counter. "You are too much."

"Most people say that, too."

"What do the other people say?" John asked.

"Piss off."

 

Sherlock returned John to his dorm with a flourish, parking the BMW out front and getting out to open the door for the smaller boy. John looked like he wanted to punch Sherlock  and Sherlock deduced that John wanted to be the stronger force in this relationship. Sherlock smiled to himself. John Watson was certainly proving to be a surprise. They stood in front of the dorm doors, Sherlock hovering just out of reach. Boldly, John stepped forward and caught Sherlock's coat sleeves with his hands, pulling the thinner boy to him until they were face to face with a pencil's width apart. Sherlock could feel John's beating heart, could feel the boy's desire roll off him in waves.

"Can I kiss you?" John growled, licking his lips. Sherlock focused on the pink tongue and the rosy tip of it as it disappeared inside of John's mouth. For an answer, Sherlock leaned forward and let his lips brush John's. John gasped and then his hands were on either side of Sherlock's head, pulling him down into a stronger kiss, his tongue tracing Sherlock's bottom lip. Sherlock felt the heat inside of himself. It was as if he was boiling  as though he was flying close to the sun and the heat threatened to engulf him in the rays. John moaned, and Sherlock answered his with one of his own. Tongues dueled for supremacy and Sherlock wanted to ask John where he had ever learned to kiss like this and what a surprise this boy was, this common tanned short wiry boy with the knock off clothes and the scent of mint and sunshine.

"John." Sherlock broke the kiss first, his lips already cold and regretful. "I need to get to practice."

"Yeah, sorry..." John kicked at an imaginary pebble. "Can I see you again?"

Sherlock realized he was smelling John's blood and he gasped reaching for the door to support himself. Their vigourous kissing had broken the suture on John's lip and Sherlock's mouth was smeared with coppery scented blood from their shared kiss. He inhaled deeply as his one finger traced John's lip gently. Quite suddenly, he brought the finger up to his mouth and licked it, his eyes shut in complete satisfaction. His brain wanted to explode in the pure pleasure of it but something was tugging at his coat, something brought him back to now and he met John's concerned blue eyes locked in his.

"Can I see...you again?"

"In class." Sherlock teased, coming down to earth but vowing to savour that taste for a good long while. "And I have your mobile number. We can text tonight after rehearsal."

"I'd like that," John agreed eagerly. With a final quick hug, then, Sherlock strode off to drive the car to Redwood Hall, the theatre, and John walked into his dorm, rubbing his arms, already missing Sherlock between them. Things were definitely getting interesting in America, he thought, especially when Sherlock Holmes was in the driver's seat. John did not see the shadow against the building nor the figure who darted out and around the corner, talking into his mobile as he walked.

"Yeah, Holmes dropped off JOhnny Boy at the dorm. Shall I go see if I can stir things up after rehearsal? Yeah? Ok, you're the boss." With that, Sebastian Moran shoved his hands in his pocket where his hands found the blackjack and fingered it fondly as he walked down the path to Redwood Hall.

 

 


	4. The Reflex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when Sebastian Moran carries out his instructions? Indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for the comments and kudos. I hope you continue to read this. I will try to update a bit more frequently.

_"Am I not sensitive,_  
Clever,  
Well-mannered,  
Considerate,  
Passionate,  
Charming,  
As kind as I'm handsome  
And heir to a throne?"

"Excellent, Sherlock! You are right on key! Now then, if the strings could please keep up with the vocals and the brass, we'll be just fine." Dr. Federici yawned and threw his baton down on the music stand in front of him. Behind him, Sherlock and the rest of the cast of "Into The Woods" were shuffling and shrugging, some of them with their hands in their pockets, some of them with their hands hanging limply beside their bodies. Could it be that practice was over for the evening? Was that too much to hope for after 3 hours? "Go on! Go home or back to your dorms! We are calling it quits for the night." The music teacher/drama coach absently rubbed a hand through his hair. Sherlock leaped off the stage gracefully and the young man caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. "A moment, Sherlock."

The slender youth stood in front of his drama coach, slightly out of breath from singing, his chest heaving a bit. Sherlock wondered what the problem was. Hands down, he was better than any of the untamed youth in the production, even thinking he was better than Dr. Federici himself. After all, Sherlock had studied from a master in the past. Pavarotti had been impressed so why wasn't this guy, Sherlock thought.

"You were spot on with your delivery and the singing was so good." The coach took off his round spectacles and began to clean them against the hem of his white shirt.

"Yes, I know." Sherlock lifted his pointy chin up and regarded the man with cool silver irises. "Is there a problem?"

"Prob-? Oh no, no problem." Dr. Federici sighed inwardly. Sherlock Holmes was an enigma but damn, he was proud to have the boy in his theatre group. "I just wanted to say that you were good." Sherlock continued to regard the man as though he was a bug under a microscope. "That's it. You can, uh go now." With a shooeing motion, Dr. Federici turned his attention towards the stack of papers leaning against his music stand. The students had filled out bio's to be used in the programme the following weekend. He could hardly wait to see Sherlock Holmes' contribution.

Sherlock turned and started towards the seats to get his coat. The taste of John Watson still lingered a bit in his mouth and he concentrated on that, loving how the smaller but wiry built boy had felt pressed hard against his own body. He had Turned when he was but 16 years of age, having never had the pleasure of another's company in his bed, and although Sherlock knew all the intricacies of sex and sexual intercourse, he had never been touched like he wanted John to touch him. Belstaff on, Sherlock strode down the middle of the seats towards the exit. He knew Mycroft's minions had probably come for the car so it was either walk home or call a taxi, and since it was such a nice evening, Sherlock elected to just walk. He could take the pathway along the highway and cut through the business district, perhaps picking up a cuppah to sip on his way.

The first part of his walk was as promised. The moon shone brightly, and Sherlock, although able to see in the darkest of dark, liked the warmth and light it gave him. Seems as if it reflected the new turn his life had taken in meeting the interesting John Watson. Oh sure there were more handsome boys at the school. Victor Trevor had been a fanciful diversion for real but ego and hurt were a vicious motivator and when Mycroft had seen that the relationship was punishing and abusive to Sherlock, he had taken steps to end it.

In John Watson, however, there was not one bit of intended malice and if the boy did have an ego it was mired in all of the other unique personality traits that made him who he was. Sherlock had seen that through tasting his blood that had been accidently spilled. John had suffered through the death of his parent; Sherlock even thought that the wiry blonde still had nightmares about his father. That was, however, pure conjecture. It was not true that Vampyres like him could 'see' completely into someone's mind, even if that someone was his Destiny.

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at the moon that was still illuminating his way. The crack of a twig registered loudly in his ears and he paused for a few seconds before beginning to walk again. Someone was following him. The footsteps were more certain now, and Sherlock ascertained that whoever it was had to know that Sherlock was aware of him. Thus the confidence in the footfall. Sherlock allowed a tendril of his mind to reach out and touch the person behind him.

Moran!

Upperclassman. Should have graduated but failing grades kept him behind for the last 2 years. Big. Hulking but not particularly coordinated. Smelled of onions that he had on his burger at dinner and cigarettes, but only the generic kind, most likely whatever was on sale at the local Thrifty. Following orders to...

Sherlock turned suddenly and stuck out a foot. Moran, who was charging with a weapon of some kind in his hand, tripped over the foot and landed on his stomach, heavy and oafishly. Sherlock whirled and within the time it took to blink, had his arm tightly around Moran's neck, choking off the air supply and making the bigger man wheeze and snort.

"You can tell your BOSS," Sherlock spat out the last word with clenched jaw, "that it's useless to try to sneak up on me like some kind of assassin. And further, if you try to harm John Watson in any way, your head will be in my trophy case." Sherlock was snarling now, canines prominent in his anger, making the man in his grip tremble from anger and fear. "DO you understand?" Sherlock jerked his arm harder making his prisoner gasp and open his mouth like a fish on the sand. Still Sherlock felt the man nod so he released his hold on him and stood, anger rolling off his slight frame in tangible waves. Moran sat up, rubbing his throat and coughing for air. He narrowed his watery eyes at Sherlock and coughed again.

"You....you....My boss will...cough cough cough...will be...cough cough cough....pissed off and..." Moran retched once and got up on his hands and knees.

"We're done here. I could care less that your BOSS will be, as you say, 'pissed off.' Good evening, Moran. I will kill you if you try to hurt me or John Watson again." With that, Sherlock walked on, coat around him like a protective blanket. He was aware that he was shaking with anger and he tried to take deep breaths to calm himself as he walked. Men like Moran did nothing but cause trouble and stir up dormant and unwanted emotions. He preferred to focus on something pleasant like the way John Watson's hair smelled and how dark of blue his eyes were. He also knew instinctively that he would have to share his encounter with his brother, something he was not looking forward to, since Mycroft would only try to help him and assistance would require Sherlock leaving this school. A week ago, that was something that would have saved him. Now that he had John, HIS John, Sherlock wanted to continue his education here, in more ways than one. Sighing loudly, Sherlock decided to forego the cuppah and just go straight home.

 

"John! JOHN!!!" Mike shook the smaller boy, who was still moaning and flailing in his bed. Mike ducked and pinned both of John's arms down by sitting on his chest.

"Ooof, blimey, get OFF!!!" John opened sleepy eyes wide and pushed at the bigger boy. Mike obligingly slid off and stood by John's bed, rubbing his arm that John had belted while in the middle of his nightmare. John panted and sat up, looking around the room. When he realized what had happened, he bit his lip and drew his feet up underneath him, tenting the blanket up. "God, Mike. Was I dreaming?" He asked in a small voice.

"Dreaming? No, it was more like nightmare-ing. You ok?" Mike bent to look at John's sweaty white face. The usual tan was gone instead replaced by a blanched white grey on his skin. His eyes, normally blue, were almost black and big in his face.

"Cor, yeah, I was...." John stood and walked to their bedroom door. His hand shook as he reached for the knob to open it. "Guess I'll go whiz. Be right back, Mike." John heard Mike say something but it was lost in the shutting of the door. John shuffled down to the shared toilet and washroom, bare feet cold on the hallway floor. He shivered in the night air, but whether it was because he was cold or because he was still trying to shake off the effects of the nightmare, he didn't know.

John urinated, then washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face. He frowned at his reflection in the mirror. What did a beautiful boy like Sherlock Holmes see in him, plain old John Watson? Oh his mother had told him plenty of times that he was a handsome lad and even some of the girls back at his old school had vied for his attentions. He was never without a girl on his arm. But the face looking back at him was neither handsome or unusual in its features. His eyes were blue under sandy lashes. His mouth was neither full or curved, but instead just ordinary. His nose was long and had a bump in the middle, just like his dad's. Like his dad's.

Like Dad.

His nose. Was like his father's. John felt the tears prick behind his eyes and remembered the dream he had been having. It was his usual--empty coffin in the funeral home where his father had lay in state. Flowers cloyingly sweet, so real he had smelled them and his mouth tasted of them when Mike had shaken him awake. Tendrils of spider webs trailing from the ornate ceiling and somewhere off in the distance his father was calling him, shouting his name over and over. "Jooohnnnnn!!! JOHHHHNNNN!!!" More insistent and urgent. "Johnnnn!! BEWARE !!! Beware of the darkness! It 's final. It's cold. Dark." And then his father had sat up, pointing with an accusing finger and John had been trapped as the door to the room shut and his father had lumbered out of the coffin, out of the wooden box that ferried him down below to the ground and to the darkness only it wasn't his father it wasn't his father it wasn't his father but some meatless rotting skeleton with laughing jaw and bony neck and talons for fingers

"John?"

John immediately started and his heart practically leapt out of his throat. His friend, Mike, was beside him, also looking into the mirror, hand on John's shaking shoulder.

"Aye, Mike. Sorry, mate. I was just...thinking about the dream." John turned back to the sink and splashed some more water on his face. The images from the nightmare still gripped him and as he rubbed at his face with a paper towel, he thought back to the day his father had died.

"Not good to think about things like that." Mike washed his hands too and nodded to himself. "Come on now. To bed. Don't you have a science experiment tomorrow with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Oh yeah, we do. Trying to determine if caffeine affects typing speed." John grinned at Mike, all thoughts of his father swept aside by the summoning of Sherlock's image in his head. Black wayward curls, as though someone just shuffled a hand through them and let them fall where they may around his thin face....eyes that changed colour depending on his mood....such big hands with such long fingers...holding up a beaker and swirling around the liquid, all the time lecturing John about the absorption rates of ammonia....angular thin body that held surprising strength and heat when he hugged John....and those cupid bow shaped lips...in hot kisses and darting tongues...

"I'd say that something is affecting you right now." Mike grinned good naturedly and John felt himself blush warmly feeling the heat in his groin. His lounger bottoms were bulging appropriately and with a somewhat embarrassed wave of his hand, John cleared his throat and shuffled his way to the washroom door.

"Better get to bed then."

"I'll give you a minute if you want." Mike grinned even more and John began to laugh in return.

"No....geezus, Mike....I am not gonna wank knowing you're coming back to the room any minute." John felt his face flame and he ducked his head. "Come to bed. We've had enough adventures for one night." 

 

The next day dawned rainy with a definite chill in the air. For September in New York City, that was unusual and all the talking heads were mentioning that there was an early winter coming. Sherlock yawned at the tv with obvious boredom. Mycroft had not talked to him last night and Sherlock had simply fixed himself a blood mango shake when he had arrived home and gone to bed on a full stomach. And the older brother was nowhere to be seen that morning, which made it easier for Sherlock to simply have a bite to eat for breakfast--toast and tea--and slip out of the house and into the car that was provided for him to go to school. His driver was his usual, a man named Wallace, who was good natured and easy to talk to. Sherlock nodded a hello and then sprawled out in the back seat, hand under his chin, watching with no thought out the window.

"You had a bit of a row last night?" Wallace said from the front seat.

"Aye, though, how did you know that?" Sherlock knew the answer the minute he said it. "My brother tell you?"

"Aye. He did at that. Moran is a dangerous boy. You need to stay away from him." Wallace looked up in the rvm and his eyes met Sherlock's. Sherlock saw nothing but kindness in them and he blew out a breath and leaned back against the back seat.

"It's not exactly like I invited him for a walk last night. He's a rather perverted chap."

"Perverted indeed. Anyone who hangs out with James Moriarty is not one bit good. You be careful. I'll pick you up after theatre practice from now on." Wallace nodded to himself and busied with the driving. Sherlock didn't know why Mycroft did not confront him about the fight in the woods but decided that if he got away with just a mild lecture from Wallace then he could count himself lucky.

 

John stared at the way Sherlock's fingers were flying across the keyboard. It was amazing and a sight to see! They were  moving so fast that they were a blur!

"Jesus, Sherlock, that's...that's the proof. Caffeine DOES affect performance!" John hurriedly wrote down in minute detail how much caffeine the other boy had consumed and then estimated the WPM speed of Sherlock's fingers. With a flourish, Sherlock halted his keyboard administrations and looked up at John, eyes silvery blue in the light of the lab room. John's breath hitched a bit when he realized how beautiful they were.

"Did you write it down?" John nodded. "All of it? All the observations? Because it's useless if you only skimmed the surface."

"I did it. It's done, Sherlock." John's voice faltered a bit as Sherlock grabbed the notepad from John's hands and started to read it, mouth soundlessly moving over the words.

"You didn't add the rapidity of my eye movements. That's an important factor." With a  flourish, Sherlock printed in the notebook and then handed it to John, shoving it firmly into the other boy's midsection so that John made a little sound as his breath escaped.

"Ok. So ...are we done..."John's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline and he grinned a bit wickedly at Sherlock.

"Well, yes, I suppose we are so maybe--"

John reached out and grabbed Sherlock by his bony shoulders to thrust the other boy tightly against him. Their bodies met in a hot flush and Sherlock answered John's leer with a grin of his own.

"Not here, John. I don't want someone walking in on us and disturbing our...rapture..." Sherlock's eyes turned from blue to grey, narrowing as he thought about it.

"Mike' s gone all day. He has brass ensemble then he always goes with Stu Mellon to the cafeteria for dinner. We could uh go to my room and uh..." John blushed, colour rising on his face. Sherlock traced the healing cut on John's forehead, taking care not to push too deeply to cause pain. Beneath that slice of flesh was blood. The thought of it made Sherlock's head roar.

"Let's go then." Sherlock grabbed the notebook and then in an afterthought, grabbed John's hand. Holding hands, the boys walked out of the lab, emotions tangible on their faces as they headed off for an afternoon of unplanned pleasure.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter promises some smut. Hope you continue to share their adventures.


	5. Would I Spend Forever Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> give us a tantrum  
> and a know it all grin  
> just when we need one  
> when the evening's thin
> 
> oh you're a beautiful  
> a beautiful fucked up man  
> you're setting up your  
> razor wire shrine 
> 
> Sarah McLachlan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tweaked this chapter at the request and good sense of SherlockDreadsNaught. I hope you like it a bit better than the last effort...

John was achingly close to Sherlock as they started on the path towards Byron Hall. The mid afternoon sun warmed his face and he tried to look up at the cloudless sky but was met with the sun's resistance and so he squinted and felt dizzy all at once. FOr some reason, this struck John as funny so he began to laugh and grin like an idiot.

"What?" Sherlock paused in their walking, still holding John's hand but John felt the other boy's tenseness now in his finger hold.

"Nothing. I mean, this." John gestured in a grand arc around both of them, head turned up and eyes watering because of the brightness. "This is...good. It's a good day." His cobalt blue eyes came back to rest on Sherlock's intense gaze, and he was aware that his eyelids were fluttering in tune to his heart.

"Yes um well." Sherlock nodded more to himself than to John and then pulled John along. John could see the brick of his dormitory looming close. He smelled that now familiar smell of stone and mortar and plaster baking in the afternoon heat. Glancing at Sherlock, John wondered why Sherlock did not have the sheen of sweat that was currently dripping down John's neck and back. Instead, his partner was wearing his coat buttoned up to the throat.

"Are you cold?"

"John, I hope you remember your key code entry or we will be stymied before we begin."

John shot a look at Sherlock and had to remind himself that this tall elegant creature by his side was as old as John was, and not some 40 year old man.

"Of course I remember it." John played with the key pad and at first attempt, the buzzer sounded but the door did not open. "Oh no!" John's hands cradled his face in a role play of "The Scream." "I have forgotten the code! Whatever shall we do?" John waited for the look of indignation that would cross Sherlock's face but none came. Instead, the taller boy butted John out of the way and impatiently, and with an air of proprietary, punched in the correct code. The metal side door swung open with a steady groan and then Sherlock stepped out of the way to let John pass first. John shrugged and walked inside, feeling the cooling draughts of the air conditioning hit his sweaty body. "Wait a sec. You don't live here. How did you know what to punch in?"

Sherlock just looked at John the way he might look at a gnat under a microscope (that is, withering) and swirled his coat around his body rather dramatically.

"Ok. You aren't gonna tell me," John said, a smile trying to tug at his lips, "Then I am going to have to make you guess which room is mine." John made to run off down the long carpeted hallway to the stairs, sure that if he had enough of a head start he could beat his taller friend.

"Seriously, John, don't bother. You and Stamford occupy #42. It's at the end of a hallway on the second floor." Sherlock feigned a yawn and patted John's head with one hand. John gulped a bit remembering what the fingers had felt like when he was holding them just seconds ago.

"Yeah, that' s right. How did you..." John sighed and caught up with Sherlock, the taller boy having already begun to make his long stride way towards the stairs. Sherlock was amazing, really, and he hoped his gaze on the back of that long wool coat wasn't felt.

"You know, John, you stare at the sun too long and you'll go blind. Not to mention what physical havoc that would do to the rest of your body. You're fair haired and fair skinned. Avoiding disease in the future starts with prevention now--"

"--thanks, Mom." John murmured and scuffed his feet.

"You need to listen to me, John." And suddenly, those long fingers and strong hands were holding on to John's shoulders tightly, so tightly that the next day, there would be bruises of fingers on his collarbones and scapula, purple standing out on his fair skin. John gasped, feeling the strength of Sherlock's gaze and how it was directed only at him. They might as well be the only 2 living beings on earth, right here, right now, in the middle of the second flight of stairs leading up to paradise. "You are one of a kind. The only John Hamish Watson on earth who is almost 16 and attending school at St. Damien's."

"I know that." John frowned. Sherlock still hadn't let go of him.

"You need to take care of yourself so you can be around a long time." Sherlock's fingers dug into John's flesh.

"Ow...Sherlock!"

"Promise me you'll take care of yourself." Sherlock's face was so close to John's that John could see the silky reddish coloured hairs on his chin, sprouts of just becoming a man. "PROMISE!" Sherlock's voice was almost a command and John felt fear for a rising second, and then it was tempered by Sherlock pulling John into a hug that was rough and needy. "You have to be around for me, John. You just have to."

John reached up and stroked Sherlock's back, hands smoothing down the wool of the long coat. "Shhhh...don't be upset. I was just kidding about the sun." John pulled away and his hands found Sherlock's face. Tenderly, John stroked that smooth skin, loving the cool feel of it, admiring the alabaster colour. "And just how," John giggled, "did you find out my middle name?"

"Does it matter?" was all Sherlock said as he regained his composure and pulled John towards the end of the hallway.

John swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat. The closer they got to his room, the more he started to feel a little nervous. He had, of course, kissed and petted with a few girls back home. One had even let him feel and lick her breasts while another asked him to stroke her wet insides, making her gasp with pleasure as he rocked his fingers inside of her. John had never done anything with another boy, however, although Sherlock wasn't just another boy. Sherlock was....different. He was interesting and smart and funny and so very..beautiful. The kind of beauty that made John's chest ache. The kind of beauty that poets wrote about in sonnets and long drawn out verses that were hard to understand but sounded good when read aloud.

"Do you have your key, John?" Sherlock was waiting by the door to John's room. He was impatiently tapping a foot.

"Silly git...yeah I do somewhere." John looked up, wonder on his face. "You still haven't told me how you knew the key code to this building, ya know."

"Just look for your key," Sherlock said, but his eyes and lips were smiling like he had a secret.

"Got it." John held up the silver object like a prize but Sherlock snatched it away, then pushed it in the lock, heard the tumblers turn, and took it away. "Check to see if Mike--"

"Mike isn't here. He is currently having another piece of pie in the cafeteria with his friend Lenny Higgens, although neither of them, tell the truth, need the extra fat and calories." Sherlock pushed the door open with an ease, then began to take off his coat and scarf.

"Why aren't you boiling in that wool? I would have been dead by now had I worn that thing." John shrugged off his backpack and kicked it under his desk. The room wasn't too messy. He and Mike kept things up by remembering to dump their trash, sweep the floor, and make their beds. John's bed seemed to be the only thing in the room just then and he stared at it with what he knew was a dumb look on his face. A gentle hand in his brought him back to earth.

"Funny you should put it that way." Sherlock grinned  and the lightness and beauty in his thin face as evident. John sucked in a breath and wished that he wasn't so sweaty. He was sure his hair was probably sticking up in insufferable cowlicks and his face was dripping with the exertion of running up the stairs. Still, it was cool in his room thanks to the ac, so maybe he wouldn't be too messy to kiss.

As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock turned and grabbed a towel off the rack next to John's bed. It was his favourite blue and white striped towel from home, a reminder of a simpler time, and Sherlock seemed to sense this as he was reverent in his ministrations to John's face and neck. The terrycloth felt good against John's skin and he sighed and leaned into Sherlock so his head was bumping against a shoulder.

"Feels good." John sighed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, drawing his thin friend closer to him and smelling the scent of bergamot, sanitizer, and tobacco, all warm and familiar smells all defining Sherlock. Sherlock laid the towel back on the bed and pulled John towards it, eyes almost closed. There was a tension between them but it was a tension fraught not with anxiety but purpose. Their hands tangled in each other's hair, and John was suddenly aware of those soft thick unruly curls of dark velvet so real in his touch. Sherlock was raking fingernails through John's honey coloured short hair, concentrating on the soft skin behind John's ears and the touch sent pleasure signals straight to John's groin.

It was John's turn to be on top. He pushed Sherlock down on the bed so his ass was firmly planted in the middle of the single bed. Covers went askew and John didn't care. Sherlock was looking up at John with his pink lips parted and his tongue just peeking out. It was better than any skin magazine John had ever looked at.

"Are you ready?" John asked in a hoarse whisper, sure now that he was all hands and feet and not at all attractive to the seductive boy who was all splayed out on his bed. In his room. Just the 2 of them, for God's sake and how the hell was he supposed to know what to do? Indecisively, thoughts that were lingering on abandoning the ship for the sake of decency filled his head. He lowered his eyes, lashes blocking the guilt and desire in equal measures in those cobalt blue eyes.

"John. Come to me." Sherlock sighed and the innocent gaze of John, tempered with want, went straight to his own groin. He had not done this for a very long time, and as he recalled, it was pleasurable but nothing like the ship that was about to sail at this very minute. Sherlock stretched his arms above his head in a lazy but hopefully beguiling manner and John swallowed, Adam's Apple bobbing on his tanned neck. Sherlock found himself unable to look away from the skin there. Maybe just a little drink. Maybe just a nip and a swallow.

His thoughts were interrupted by John carefully climbing between Sherlock's spread legs, John's knees on the comforter and his hands that supported his weight were framing Sherlock's head. John looked down at Sherlock and with a gentle huff, the breath so warm as it ghosted across Sherlock's face, laid down squarely on Sherlock. The surprise in John's eyes was evident and then a slow lazy grin started at the corners of his mouth.

"Sherlock!" He whispered, feeling the hardness of Sherlock's cock against his own cock. Oh but Jesus that felt so good. He swallowed and pushed tentatively and the boy beneath him moaned softly. It was like the best music John had ever heard. With gentle hands, John ran tender touching caresses through the thick dark curls. He sought Sherlock's lips with his own, the kiss gentle at first and then harder until Sherlock opened his mouth against John's unrelenting lip assault. It was John's turn to groan and he did, low in his throat as the passion tore into him like an out of control racehorse. They kissed, lips seeking and tongues licking and teeth biting. John felt a nip that made his eyes tear and then Sherlock was rubbing his lips against his own, and there was blood because John could taste the copper. Was it his?

Sherlock lapped at the blood that was pooling out of the nip against John's bottom lip. It was sweet and salty and full of John, carrying cobalt blue and honey wheat and even teeth and shy grin and light, such incredible light. Sherlock felt dizzy with the cacophony of desires and tastes. John was still kissing him and he answered John's seeking tongue with stabbing randomness of his own. He tasted John's mouth--vegetable curry, a Bounty bar, and a cough lozenge all registering in his brain, all being put aside in a box to examine later. They kissed at first with sloppy intentions and the grinding of their clothed hard cocks made Sherlock want to thrust and jut against John's rutting body. Both of them were moaning and panting and John was trying to remove Sherlock's shirt or at least open it up but his hand was shaking so Sherlock batted him away and instead pushed John's shirt up with slender fingers cool against John's super heated skin. Skin as smooth and as silky as satin. Sherlock felt the push inside of his own head and nothing else mattered now but completing the heat that ran through his loins. Violet and blue tendrils of ecstasy wrapped around his core. He was sucking at John's bottom lip, seeking and tearing and loving...

"Sherlock...oh God..." John moaned into the kiss and suddenly clenched, his body taut as Sherlock ghosted his hands down the smooth skin of John's warm back and Sherlock felt John come, shaking with the force of the orgasm. "Oh God..sorry...so sorry.." John was murmuring and trying to kiss and lick but Sherlock just turned his head and with a power that shook his own body, came violently against John's softening bulge. John kept kissing him through it until Sherlock was steady and slowly breathing through his nose with none of the panting. "That was...amazing..." John sighed. He laid on Sherlock with his head pressed against Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock was languid with spent heat and passion. He lay splayed under John and vaguely heard the cooing sounds that the other boy was making, senseless words and syllables that reminded Sherlock of his violin and the strings being plucked by his long fingers. A. C Sharp. B Flat. D. A good solid D. Thrum and hum and beautiful of noise. John nuzzled Sherlock's neck and then stopped suddenly. Sherlock felt his own breath catch as he landed with a thud down to earth and reality. What was John Watson doing?

John cocked his head and lay down flush against Sherlock again but this time, his ear was against Sherlock's chest and he was...oh God, he was listening....

No, no, no!!! Sherlock suddenly pushed John off him, panic setting in when he realized that if John Watson was astute, he would not be able to hear Sherlock's heartbeat. Sherlock sat up, pushing John off him in one fluid strong motion and unseating the boy from Sherlock's prone body. John whimpered low in his throat and pushed back a lock of hair from his forehead.

Now, Sherlock arranged his clothes, all the while feeling the heat of John's gaze on him. He wished he could just explain, just tell John why this could not be a good thing event though it had been the best thing that ever happened to Sherlock. He reached for his coat, unable to save himself now because it was too late. He had never meant to feel like this and for John Watson to discover...what he was...it would be the end.

"Did I do or say something wrong?" John said quietly, frowning. He watched as Sherlock shrugged into his coat and tied up his scarf.

"Not at all, John." Sherlock tried to keep his voice even although his pretend heart was breaking. He had had a heart once. It beat and he bled and he felt like a normal, like a human, which he clearly was not any longer.

"Then why this? Why are you leaving me? Can't you stay? I could...I could....I could use my mouth--" John continued and his eyes were like lasers on Sherlock. Sherlock whirled and pressed a slender finger to John's lips and tried to ignore the blood that had seeped from the bite on John's bottom lip, the blood that now stained John's chin. He wanted to tell John. He ACHED to tell John but now was not the time.

Because Mike Stamford is on his way here." As Sherlock turned, John was shocked to hear a key in the lock and suddenly, Mike's ruddy face appeared, peering in and smiling.

"Hey John." He entered the room and set down his trombone. "You guys studying?"

"Something like that," John answered with a decidedly hurt tone. He was still staring at Sherlock, who finally met his gaze.

"John. Let's go get something to eat. I'm ravenous." Sherlock threw John's coat at him, and it hit the boy in the chest. John stood and still looking at Sherlock, shrugged it on. Sherlock ignored the lump that was forming in his throat. He had betrayed John somehow with this ...this physical thing that both of them wanted so much.

"Be back in a bit, Mike." John followed Sherlock out the door and shut it behind them with a tight movement. As they walked side by side down the hall, Sherlock was more than aware of John's hurt and his questioning glances.

"John, I can explain later. For now, let's get a coffee or a ...honey bun or a bunch of biscuits or something. Besides," Sherlock said with a small smile as he whipped out his phone and checked a text. "I have a case to examine. Right on time, Lestrade."

"What are you talking about?" John's hand wrapped gently around Sherlock's wrist and those eyes that hid so much most of the time were wide.

"A case. I work for the Yard. Or rather, they need me." Sherlock looked a bit too triumphantly at John. "Wanna come? Investigate a crime scene?"

"You ...you aren't kidding are you?" John's eyes grew wider.

"Not a laughing matter, John. Someone is dead and I got a text from the detective in charge. Oh THIS is just like school holidays and sleeping late on weekends!" Sherlock's face lit up and he practically clapped his hands. "John! I could use another set of eyes."

"You want me to come with you....now....into ...Manhattan?"

"Manhattan, yes.  A record store owner, Lestrade said." Sherlock quit walking and stood in front of the door where the boys had first come in. "I imagine Anderson has already messed up the evidence." Sherlock sighed dramatically and it was his turn to reach for John's hand. "We can take a cab if you'd like."

"Guess we're gonna have to," John muttered, still not looking too sure of all of this. "Will there be a ...body?" He gulped and Sherlock again focused on that fabulous throat and neck.

"Of course." Sherlock smiled and it almost looked predatory. John blinked and then seemed to make his decision.

"Ok. Let's try this. But we can't be out in the city all night. There's a lot of weirdos there. I read the orientation packet." John was now keeping up with Sherlock's long strides as they walked across the campus. He heard a small snort from the taller boy.

"Oh yes, the orientation packet. I do believe I used the paper for combustible filler for an experiment."

"Oh Sherlock..." John rolled his eyes. What was he doing exactly?  This was crazy! They had just had sex, (and his damp underwear was testament to that) and now they were going to take a cab into the city to ...see a body...

John had never felt so alive in his life!


	6. Wild Boys/Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A-hunting they will go...Sherlock and John investigate the murder of a prominent record store owner. With no sign of entry, the boys try and figure things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for lack of regular updates but work has been unkind to me. Hopefully I can try and post a chapter a week.  
> Also, this chapter and the ensuing ones will have a reference to an X Files episode, Number 21 in the first season called "Tooms."  
> I am a huge X Files fan.....

_are you an angel_

_am I already that gone_

_I only hope that I don't disappoint you_

 

John glanced at Sherlock. The boy was sitting like a bloodhound, alert and almost sniffing the air as their taxi made its way through very congested bridge traffic. Of course this was the NYC that John had read and heard about! All cacophony and clanging and sporting a zoo atmosphere of sorts, that is,if cars were animals. John shifted on the vinyl seat and tried not to think about how damp his underwear was. He should have tried to change his pants, he knew but he had been caught up in the heat of the momentand he just skipped it and hadn't thought about it. Until now.

"Quit squirming. I, too, am impatient but that isn't going to get us to the murder scene any faster." Sherlock huffed a small audible exasperated breath. "It should only take approximately 10 minutes. TEN  MINUTES!" Sherlock leaned up and said in a very clipped tone "Get us there faster and there's one hundred dollars in it besides your tip."

"Sherlock!" John admonished, his eyes wide in disbelief. One hundred dollars! Cripes, he could buy a lot of extra art supplies with that!

"What? It's incentive, John." Sherlock grinned as the cab seemed to motor a bit more stealthily through the traffic.

"More like bribery," John whispered. At that, Sherlock looked directly at John and the grin faded. John felt the gaze rather than return it. He suddenly felt naked and stripped in front of this unusual boy. Sherlock held that piercing look for a few seconds, as if he was sliding off the very layers of Johnness, and at that moment, Sherlock looked almost predatory.

"John, Lestrade's idiot crew will have decimated and destroyed the scene if we don't get there in a timely manner. Now do you want to help solve this case or not?"

"I want to help solve it.' John answered somewhat petulantly. Sherlock had returned to his normal bored state, and John felt a small blush gather in his cheeks and spread to his neck. He ducked his head, not wanting Sherlock to see this. But as the cab slowed and Sherlock tensed to jump out the second the motor idled, John knew he was in the clear as far as being examined further.

"Excellent. Ah. Here we go." Sherlock tapped on the partition separating them from the cabbie and shoved money through the slot, including, John saw on top, a one hundred dollar bill. He paused as Sherlock got out of the cab and shook his head in amazement, then followed after his new friend, gazing at the record store's yellow and blue striped awning. At the curb were police cars of every shape and size, most running, with the blue and red top blinkers going.

"How are we going to get in there, Sherlock? There's police tape everywhere!" John swallowed hard and looked around. His anxiety was rising as he saw 2 paramedics emerge from the now propped open front doors. They were on either end of a gurney on which lay the unmistakable shape of a dead body. "Jesus Christ!" John's eyes widened and Sherlock made a sound of exasperation.

"You're going to be a doctor, John, and join the military. Get used to it." Sherlock whirled his coat around himself and marched through the front doors, ignoring the yells of some of the officers stationed around it. He shrugged off a restraining arm and glared at the offending officer. "Detective Lestrade called me." He indicated a speechless John with the jerk of his head. "And this is my partner, John Watson. We need to examine the crime scene even though some idiot has removed the body."

The officer looked ready to slap the cuffs on the slender boy but as the man reached for his belt, another man, clad in suit and tie askew, popped out of the doors.

"Leave him," he said to the officer who stood down and focused his attention on John now. "Sherlock. You came." The man, who was not at all unattractive but had deep lines of exhaustion etched in his face and a manner that suggested too much coffee, gave Sherlock a small smile.

"Of course, Lestrade." Sherlock looked imperiously around and then put a hand out indicating he wanted John to come with him. "This is my partner, John Watson. He is Pre-Med so he might have something to offer."

John followed Sherlock and the man inside the record store. He was aware of a ringing in his ears and an ache in his stomach. He should have corrected Sherlock when the boy said that John was in Pre-Med. John was, after all, just an artist on a scholarship to St. Damien's and there were no medical classes other than Bio and Chemistry, nothing that every other student would take. How had Sherlock known, however, that John had often dreamed of being a doctor, of healing the sick, of trying to be the man who would find a cure for the disease that had taken his father? Of trying to cure alcoholism and drug abuse? That maybe he would have to join the military if he was to pay for university? That every time he picked up his sketch pad, he drew parts of the body and all of the delicious joints and muscles and blood vessels he had seen in some of the medical books he had checked out of the library? How ...just how had Sherlock unlocked that secret that nobody...NOBODY, John thought fiercely, knew about????

Sherlock was talking and it took all of John's wits to focus on what he was saying.

"--you moving the body does not make it any easier. Tell me about the victim." Sherlock was kneeling in front of a chalk outline on the floor. John smelled blood and something else, though he wasn't sure what. "Bile, John. You smell the undigested juices of the liver."

"You're right. The liver looked to be....ripped out of the victim." The man who Sherlock had called Lestrade was also bent over and looking at the outline although it was Sherlock who was busy with a magnifying glass of sorts and some other measuring instruments that he had procured out of a very expensive looking soft leather case he had produced from the pocket of his Belstaff.

"John, tell me what you think. Look around. Don't be shy. Your opinion matters."

John swallowed hard and tried not to think of an organ being 'ripped out' of anyone. He was out of his league here, having never ever seen any type of crime scene let alone a murder, but he wanted Sherlock to be proud of him and to LIKE him, so he began to shyly try and look around the room. It was an office, in the back of the record store. Nothing too opulent. The walls were carpeted, thick and, John thought, would smell musty if he was to press his nose against it. Soundproofing most likely. So the owner came here to listen to records, if the expensive and high tech looking record player in the one corner was any indication. John's feet seemed to ghost over there and he ran a finger along the arm of the record player. He had never seen one, except in magazines. It was like an antique, only not that old, he reasoned. His parents had probably had one growing up. He felt the eyes of Lestrade boring into his back and John had a sudden urge to impress. He needed to say SOMETHING.

"Was there any sign of forced entry?" John managed, realizing that his voice sounded small in the confines of the room.

"The office door was locked from the inside. One of his staff found him after breaking his door down. Got worried that he didn't answer after repeated knocking."

"But what if he was listening to his records?" John pointed to the head set with the long extension from the record player. The head set was beside the victim, and John thought the phones themselves were wet looking. He didn't want to think what they were wet WITH.

"The staff had a system. There's a switch on the wall to the right of this door. If the staff wanted his attention, they would push it up and the red lights on the ceiling," Lestrade pointed up and both John and Sherlock looked up, "would blink. If Leonards was listening to his records with the head set on, he would see the lights and then answer his door."

"Was the switch flipped up?" John asked, now focusing on something..odd...on the wall...

"Yes. And they waited for ten minutes until they decided that maybe he had had a medical problem, like a heart attack or something even though there's nothing that would indicate that."

"My dear Lestrade," Sherlock said with a snicker as he scooted around the outline and peered more closely to a dark spot on the floor. "Heart attacks might be caused by lack of sleep and too much caffeine."

"Alright, Sherlock, don't be snarky. It doesn't suit you." Lestrade ran a hand through his close cropped hair and stood, his knee joints cricking.

"What is this? A...central heating unit?" John traced his fingers over a grate in the wall that was missing its screws. He jerked his fingers back as if they were on fire and stared down at them, his stomach doing a flip flop. HIs fingers were coated with some sort of slimey substance.

"What do you make of it, John?" Lestrade walked over and bent over to the grate. He didn't seem to notice how the sandy haired boy was studying his hand with a mixture of revulsion and intrigue.

"Uh....Mr. Lestrade?" John whispered, still looking at his hand. His stomach was rolling now, and he swallowed hard trying to fight the waves of nausea that were threatening to consume him.

"It's Detective Lestrade and oh...what do you have there..."

Before Gregory Lestrade could touch John, Sherlock was right there, crowding in the middle of them and grabbing John's hand. He brought it up to his own face and sniffed it then took a tentative touch with the tip of his tongue.

"Ugh." Sherlock grimaced and, still holding John's hand by the wrist, looked directly at Lestrade. "This is going to be the most unusual case you've ever investigated."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get up something over the weekend. I hope you all continue to read this as I will be adding more to this case in the upcoming parts of this chapter. Happy Mother's Day to all the Mums out there. I am not a Mum but I do have some fur babies. Does that count?


	7. Wild Boys Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigating a gruesome crime is sometimes dirty work and John discovers where Sherlock lives...

"What do you mean 'most unusual case'? What are you keeping from me, Sherlock?" Lestrade was encroaching in the boys' personal space and his face was beginning to turn a slight reddish colour. "Spill."

"If you would give us the use of your car, or better yet, take us to my house, I can tell you EXACTLY what you are dealing with here, Detective Lestrade." Sherlock glared at the older man and with that commanding look, even Lestrade backed down even though Sherlock was years younger than he was.

"Sherlock?" John tried to wrench his hand away from his taller friend but Sherlock's hold was firm though not punishing.

"John, just allow me the use of your hand without you...touching anything else. I will hold on to you until I can get to my lab so I can analyse the liquid that is on your fingers." Sherlock's gaze on John was steady and reassuring so John nodded and then meekly followed Sherlock and the detective past the gaping police officers and plainsclothes forensics people towards Lestrade's Ford Vic parked half on the sidewalk and half on the street. Sherlock smirked at the sight of the car but carefully allowed John to get in before him and as they slid into the back seat, Sherlock still held John's wrist away from John's body.

"What do you think it is?" John asked, swallowing hard. He was nervous and excited at the same time, his pulse beating rapidly in his ears. Sherlock stared straight ahead, seemingly studying the scenery from the vantage point of his back seat perch.

"Nothing harmful if that's what you're thinking, John." Sherlock allowed a small smile to play over his lips, then calling out to Lestrade, leaned up and laid one long fingered hand over the back seat's partition. John studied that hand, thinking how pale Sherlock's skin was and how elegant his friend seemed, all languid and lengthy in all the right places. "Lestrade!" John jumped at Sherlock's bark of a tone. "Remember my address from your reports? Or must I repeat it?"

"Well I know it's in the poncey section of Brooklyn. Close enough?" And from the detective's tone of voice, John sensed that Lestrade was irritated at Sherlock's bossiness.

"Sherlock," John whispered and shook his head.

"What?" Sherlock turned his head and met John's stare with a silver eyed smoldering look that made John swallow hard.

"Just...why don't you tell him where you live and how to get there. I doubt if he has a road map in his head."

There was a pause. Sherlock looked at John intently and then his features dissolved into a more relaxed look.

"Very well." Sherlock leaned up and explained to Lestrade how to get to the house he shared with his brother and Lestrade nodded and switched lanes to get into the lanes leading to the bridge. "And hurry. We don't want this stuff on John's hand to dry up completely. It's a prime sample." When the detective did not respond, Sherlock huffed haughtily. "Don't you have one of those...portable..winking blue lights to...place on your roof?"

"'Portable winking...???" Lestrade began to laugh. "Yeah I do but for right now, the traffic is flowing. I am to turn here, right?"

"No, left. Turn left." Sherlock said icily. "What good is a ride in a police car if the winky blue light doesn't come on?" he muttered.

"No winky blue light needed, Sherlock." Lestrade was hiding a grin. Suddenly, the road became a boulevard and along its tree lined sides were huge mansion like houses set in from the street, most garnished with a circular driveway.

"Here, Lestrade. Turn here." Sherlock barely let the car stop before he was pulling John out of the back seat and leading him along the lawn to the steps, then through the heavy wooden front door and down the hallway to another interior door. Sherlock paused at this and John stood back to let Sherlock unlock the door with a key he had around his neck on a chain. He did this swiftly, using only one hand.  They quickly walked, almost running. down the stairs into the lower level. John heard Lestrade's voice and another man, British too, talking somewhere upstairs but the words were muffled due to proximity.

"Sherlock!" John said as he was pulled down a hallway into another room, this one with carpet on the walls and soundproofed on the ceiling with acoustic tiles. It was low and spacious and smelled of ammonia, though not unpleasantly. There was a long wooden table in the centre of the room and on it were heaps of petri dishes, beakers, bottles, test tubes, and some fancy looking microscopes. "What is this place?"

"My laboratory, John." Sherlock beamed and then pulled on John to come to the other side of the table where he laid out clean slides and a medicine dropper. John's hand was still sticky with residue, the liquid almost dried from the length of time it took to get to Sherlock's house, but Sherlock scraped a bit off on one slide and then used the dropper to collect the more liquidy part that was all around John's one finger. "Oh this is very good, John Watson. Very good indeed." Sherlock nodded to himself and then let go of John's wrist. John rubbed the places where Sherlock's strong hand had held his wrist and shuddered slightly at the heat left behind. Then he made a face because he was touching the residue of the liquid from the grates.

"Sherlock, is there a place I can wash my hands?"

"Sink. Back there." Sherlock was intent on looking through the very expensive microscope at the slide, and when he answered John's question, he just indicated with a wave of one hand towards the back of the room.

John walked slowly over, still looking at things that were all over the table and piled by the table legs. Boxes and copper tubing, some beakers and some overgrown herb gardens in a long windowbox took up most of the room on one end. John washed his hands at the sink and as he dried them on some paper towels hanging on the wall by the faucet, he spied a refrigerator. Suddenly, as if by order of his brain, his stomach growled and he felt his insides hollow out. Had he eaten lunch? John frowned. He could not remember if they had or not, considering their rendezvous in his room. He fished his mobile out of his pocket and was surprised to see it was after 6 pm.

"Hey, Sherlock? You hungry?" John looked hopefully at his friend who gave no indication that John was even talking. He tried again. "I sure am. Hungry that is."

"Eating slows me down, John." came the muffled, and WRONG, response.

John sighed and looked wistfully at the fridge again. Maybe Sherlock had some soda or juice in there, something, anything to drink or eat, John thought. He waited for a moment to see if Sherlock would say anything else but the boy was muttering to himself and consulting a book of some sort while he stared intermittently through  the microscope lens. Well, it was now or never, and looking never hurt, so John reached over and opened the fridge door. And then stopped.

Inside the refrigerator were nothing but bags of what looked like blood. They were all neatly labeled with a date and donor name and were stacked neatly on the shelves and in the door. John frowned, trying to understand, and as he stared dumbly at the contents, he did not hear or see Sherlock come up behind him, reach around, and shut the door firmly. John jumped and whirled around, so close to Sherlock that he could feel the other boy's breath on his face. Sherlock's eyes were dark and piercing.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that it's rude to just presume at someone else's house?" His eyes narrowed and John took a step back but he was against the fridge now with nowhere to go.

"I didn't...I mean, I asked you if you were hungry.." John heard his own voice trail off and mentally berated himself for being a chicken. Sherlock was a lot of things but he wasn't dangerous. At least he hadn't ever been but this...this was different...and John felt a shiver of fear run up his spine.

"I did not give you permission to snoop in my refrigerator, did I?" Sherlock's voice was hard, flat, monotonic.

John swallowed hard. "No. I mean, I'm sorry I ...I was just looking for some juice or something..."

Sherlock could breathe in the fear that emanated from his friend. It was almost intoxicating to smell at this distance and to see John's nostrils flare with undisguised apprehension in what Sherlock might indeed do to him. John was releasing all kinds of fight or flight pheromones without knowledge and he smelled, well, delicious. Sherlock remembered what John tasted like and he felt his teeth begin to elongate and grow.

"I can get you some then. Along with some crisps or maybe you want something more substantial?" Sherlock whirled around and was halfway down the hallway before John could even relax. His voice was growing more distant but still John heard him say something about ordering out for Chinese food and would Shrimp Mu Shoo be good enough? Sherlock was trying to put as much distance as he could between the other boy and was silently willing his incisors to return to normal. Damn this vampire trickery sometimes!

John was left in the silent room and with slightly shaky legs, propelled himself over to a stool where he sat and rubbed a hand over his face. What was up with all of the blood? Was Sherlock taking samples of people's blood and categorizing them? That must be it, especially since he had told John he worked for the police department. Still, that was an awful lot of blood to keep tabs on, and some of it was...looked to be...only half filled up in the bag. He wondered what results Sherlock had with the stuff that had been on his hands. Balefully, John looked at the microscope but didn't want to mess anything up so he waited. He dare not think of any other reason why the blood was in the fridge.

Within a few minutes and just as John was starting to nod off on the stool, Sherlock returned with a stop watch and a timer. John watched curiously as Sherlock assembled them on the table next to the microscope.

"What are those for?" John asked, moving away from the table. He regarded the other boy, looking for any signs that Sherlock might still be upset but there was nothing unusual. Sherlock seemed like Sherlock.

"Oh, timing the delivery with the watch and the timer is to remind me that I am timing something. I get caught up, you know." Sherlock smiled brightly at John.

"That will work I guess."

"John. I want you to know that I am not mad at you or upset with you. I understand now that you were ..or are...rather...hungry and need nourishment. Just as I do. Occasionally." Sherlock looked up from the timer and pursed his lips. "SO what I am about to tell you will stay here, in this room, between us. Is that understood?"

John swallowed hard and nodded.

"Let me hear you say it. Say 'I understand Sherlock.' Say it, John." Sherlock's voice was commanding and made John dizzy.

"Yes I understand..I understand, Sherlock." John wanted to press his hands over his ears and get away, run away, far away where the pressure in his head wouldn't hurt him anymore. The room was closing in, the walls moving to suffocate him just like in that one Indiana Jones movie and he wanted to move his feet but he was mired and tethered in quicksand and--

"JOHN!"

John looked up, the bad stuff falling away. All he saw was Sherlock, handsome sophisticated Sherlock, the boy who had thrust up against him in John's room until they both fell satiated afterwards. He took a deep breath and reached out a hand towards Sherlock to steady himself. Sherlock clasped his hand in both of his hands and pulled John towards him.

"Sorry Sherlock. I'm just...I don't..."

"If I told you what the blood is for, you wouldn't like me any more."

"No, that's not true!" John cried out. He did not want to judge his friend nor did he want the friendship that they had tenuously built to go south!

"I could be honest with you. Then what? If you were...shocked, I could never see you again. I would have to make sure you wouldn't ever remember being here with me, or knowing me. I am not sure I want to take that chance."

"Oh Sherlock." John's bright blue eyes lowered under sandy lashes and he regarded his friend shyly. "I ...I can wait then."

"Not a word then." Sherlock's finger pressed against John's lips.

"Not one word. Promise." John shook his head and then kissed Sherlock's finger with pursed lips.

"Good." Sherlock's voice was soothing and smooth and John thought, I have done well. He approves.

"Boys! Delivery!"

"That would be the food." Sherlock grinned at John and all prior conversation was swept away.

"I am ravenous!" John said excitedly. He followed Sherlock down the hallway and to the stairs when a sudden thought came to John. "Sherlock!"

"Hmmm?" The other boy paused mid step.

"Did you figure out what the stuff was that was on my hands?"

"Oh. That. Yes. It was bile."

"B-b-bile?" John stammered.

"Yes, John. Now come along. The food is getting cold."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I have not written sooner. I am trying to figure out some time in the evening where I can just let my creativity flow. And I know you guys want more smutty parts and I assure you they are coming but I wanted to concentrate on the crime and their relationship first.  
> As always, comments are welcome! Thank you for reading!


	8. Is There Something I Should Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stopping time is just one thing that Vampyres like Sherlock and Mycroft can do very very well....

Sherlock raced up the stairs ahead of John, leaving the smaller boy to try and catch up to him. Now that John had found the contents of the fridge, and Sherlock had momentarily commanded John into stunned acceptance, Sherlock knew he wanted to talk to Mycroft about how to go on. If he didn't like John Watson already, it would have been so easy. In fact, John never would have come here, to his and Mycroft's house, to the basement where Sherlock had his lab, and that secret would never have been opened. But he DID like John, with more of a passing fancy than he cared to admit. He had tasted the younger boy, had held him in his arms and now his heart fairly reeked of the sweetness that John had left behind. Mycroft would have the answer. Trust Mycroft because Mycroft was smarter, older, and wiser than he was or could ever be.

John raced to keep up, smaller legs making short work of the low stairs, and as he breathlessly stopped next to his friend, he took stock of the surroundings in the room. It was a typical dining room, with hutch, oversized oak table and chairs and heavy drapes that covered the lead lined window glass. All in all, it looked very British, John thought, and with a pang realized that Britain was his home and this was ... not. On one end of the table sat Lestrade, rumpled and worn as if he had the weight of the world on his muscular shoulders. John smiled shyly at him as the detective looked up and smiled back. John's attention was then focused on the other man, who sat in an armed chair at the other end of the big table. It was to him who Sherlock was busily talking to in whispers and low tones. John furrowed his brow as he looked at who he thought was Sherlock's brother, this Mycroft Sherlock talked about. With a blush, John remembered how Sherlock had nicked Mycroft's car to take them both to Starbucks.

Mycroft Holmes was not traditionally good looking but he had an imperious air about him that suggested good posture and even better upbringing. He looked tall, even seated in the chair, and his back was perfectly straight as he listened to Sherlock. Mycroft had an attractive face, strong and impassive, with blue eyes and closely cropped reddish brown hair. His nose was aquiline and his eyebrows rose as he turned towards john.

"John Watson." A small pained smile graced his thin lips and John struggled to stand there under that scrutinizing gaze. "So happy to see my brother has made one friend at school."

"Urm yes, Sherlock and I are..." John's mind was flying away to some remote part of the world. He wanted to talk, to say to Mycroft that he and Sherlock had been locked in an amourous embrace not that long ago and had seen a crime scene and had drank coffee together, and John's focus then had been the way Sherlock had licked the foam off his Cupid bowed shaped lips...but John said nothing more. He swallowed and then looked down at his Chucks, feeling once more like an ant under a microscope.

"Friends, and that's fine. Look," Lestrade had suddenly jumped into the fray and all 3 heads swiveled to look now at him. "We have a murder in a popular record store, and Sherlock told me that there was BILE on the heating grate. Now I want to know whose bile, why bile, and why am I sitting here...talking about it. Sherlock, do you have anything more for me?"

"I would have to compare the victim's DNA with the DNA extracted from the bile, but that is easily enough done. It is obvious that the killer came and went through the grate and to do that, it would have to be someone either extremely small or very very flexible judging from the age of the building and knowing that HVAC properties are old and have not been updated recently to come to code." Sherlock looked at John, who nodded in awe. Sherlock felt the heat grow in his belly just knowing that John was so approving of his deductions.

"So we're dealing with a ...midget?" The detective's face was scrunched up in disbelief.

"I'm not sure, Detective. I will have to study the case further, go back to the scene and check some things."

"Sherlock...we have school tomorrow. I have an 8 am class." John fidgeted and suddenly felt the eyes of everyone on him. Oh this was not a comfortable feeling at all.

"Waste of bloody time," Sherlock murmured turning to Mycroft.

"There is one thing to do, then, Sherlock. I do believe I have figured out the answer to the question you asked earlier." Mycroft rose, brought his hand up and both John and Lestrade froze. John looked like a living statue, standing as he was with pleading eyes towards Sherlock. Lestrade was half sitting half in the process of standing and he had his hands on the table with his fingers splayed against the wood.

"Oh show off." Sherlock flounced over to the nearest chair and stared at John. The boy was pleasing with his tanned skin and his golden thatch of hair. And those eyes, so dark and blue framed with those long sandy lashes. Sherlock had an urge ot run his hands over his face and nuzzle that neck.

"DO try to keep up, Sherlock. You're daydreaming. Again." Mycroft's tone was tempered with amusement.

"What solution have you come up with? I never meant for him to open the fridge. I had quite forgotten his human urges to eat."

"Forgotten, yes, your memory of being like him will be the undoing of you yet, my boy." Mycroft willed Sherlock to look up at him instead of focusing his attention on John. Mumbling his displeasure, the younger Vampyre did just that, and their eyes met. Sherlock could see the affection and humanity in his 'brother's' eyes and despite wanting to, he smiled. Just a little.

"So what do I do? Make him forget the blood? Or tell him the truth?"

"If you told John Watson the truth," Mycroft said, rising and ambling over to stand in front of statue John, "Would be accept you? How many people would, Sherlock? Would he turn from you in terror? Think you are making it up for attention? Not want to be your friend?"

"I wouldn't like it if...he did anything but accept ...me." Sherlock bowed his head, curls falling around his thin face. "But I suppose that what I get will be..horror and shock."

"Except you are a good judge of character. Well, with the exception of that one time." Mycroft arched an eyebrow while he bent slightly and traced John's eyebrow with a finger.

"Please don't do that." Sherlock was out of his chair and standing protectively in front of John.

Mycroft suppressed a smirk and stood back. "Surprisingly, you have become close quite quickly. Am I to expect a happy announcement at the end of the week?"

"Don't be thick, Mycroft." Sherlock was close to growling now, the young Vampyre standing between John (HIS John) and his 'brother'.

"I am nothing of the sort, Sherlock. I just want to remind you that there are consequences for everything." Mycroft paused and then turned around to Sherlock, meeting Sherlock's blue eyes with cold blue eyes of his own. "Don't. Get. Involved."

And Sherlock knew it was too late for him to walk away. He didn't want to.

"Just give me some advice, Mycroft. That's all I am asking you for today, right here." Sherlock touched his fingertip to John's warm hand.

Mycroft sighed. He wanted only the best for Sherlock and this was clearly not going to end well, although John Watson was nothing like Victor Trevor. John seemed, at least on the outside, a mature young man with a good head on his shoulders. Mycroft had deduced everything he could about John in one look when he had seen John come in with Sherlock. Father deceased, mother still working but with a bit of an alcohol problem, older sister still at home after failing university classes because of too much partying (and perhaps alcohol related or maybe it was because she was gay and having a hard time finding someone), finances not good, and art not being John's true forte.

"Very well, Sherlock." Mycroft sat back down at his original place and gazed steadily at the detective across the table from him. Lestrade was a nice looking man. The thought was fleeting and then Mycroft focused back on the problem at hand. "I can remove the memory of seeing the blood. If that's what you want."

"It would be...beneficial....I think." Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper. How was it in such a short time that he had become so wrapped up into John Watson? He had never...felt like this. Like he wanted John's approval and company and John's smell of sunshine and lilies and tea and grass and clean linen in a drawer. And his taste...his taste was so unique and left Sherlock hungering for more.

"Allow me."

"Yes." Sherlock stood aside and let Mycroft place long fingered hands on John's forehead, where he stroked and touched and concentrated, seemingly seeing into John's mind with tendrils of curiosity, to settle there, and to erase what John had seen. When he was done, and truly it was mere seconds, Mycroft stood back and looked at Sherlock. "Thank you."

Mycroft lifted Sherlock's head with a finger under Sherlock's chin and then leaned close to plant a gentle kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

"And now," the older Vampyre said, straightening and walking back to his chair, "I had better resume our conversation with Lestrade." He waved his hand and John and Lestrade instantly came back to life, neither realising they had missed some minutes of their lives.

"A midget could do that very thing, Sherlock." Lestrade took a sip of his tea and set the cup down, staring intently at the young detective who was smirking. Lestrade clearly did not remember bringing up that theory minutes before. Mycroft simply shook his head at the suggestion and stifled a smile. Humans. So predictable. So pedestrian. So...good looking, at least this one was...

" A Midget....Lestrade, if that's the best you can do then we are clearly in trouble." He stood up and walked down the hall with long strides. "We should go back to the crime scene. John! Are you coming?" Sherlock hastened to get his coat and scarf, and John hurriedly put on his jacket, thinking that his 8 am class was going to be a lost cause. Yet, most of him, no, all of him wanted to accompany his odd friend. "And on the way, Detective, stop at the McDonald's before the bridge exit. Young Watson here needs to eat!"

"How did you..." John grinned. Yes, he was starving and Sherlock had not made any offer to get them food.

"Simple. I heard your stomach growling. Come on, Detective. Quit staring at my brother and get your car rolling. We have a murder to solve!"

John was laughing now and trailing in the fabulous wake of his friend. He felt more alive and focused than he had ever felt. There was never a dull moment with Sherlock Holmes, and he intended to make the best of it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and I wouldn't be human if I didn't say it makes me happy!


	9. Sing Blue Silver Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> plans are made for John's birthday while the boys try to solve the case...Part ONE of this chapter...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos. And I DO love cookies. Posting Chapter 2 on Tuesday.

John pulled another late summer dandelion weed out of the crack of the sidewalk and frowned at his shadow. He had been pulling weeds and spraying vinegar water most of the morning, a job nobody liked to do, but since he had fallen asleep in his early Biology class after being out all night investigating the record store owner's murder, he had received Detention Duty and this is what he was assigned. On a Saturday no less. When there was a rugby game. A HOME rugby game. The FIRST HOME RUGBY GAME of the season. John continued to scowl as he slowly made his way on his hands and knees to another part of the long sidewalk. It was all Sherlock's fault, John thought with petty annoyance. The boy didn't even make class when John did, with seconds to spare, after that fateful night, nor had he shown up for any other of the classes that they took together. Nobody ever penalized him, John thought. He pulled another weed and threw it in the bin beside him. As he reached to pull another one, a pair of black dress shoes was presented to his right, and he stopped and looked up, squinting at the bright sun.

Sherlock stood silently, neither smiling or attempting conversation, and when John's gaze met Sherlock's, John was not surprised to see the mirth there in those shifting coloured irises.

"Oh yeah, you think it's funny eh?" John snorted and reached around Sherlock's shoes to grab at the offending weed. He popped the top off but the root remained and he gave a little sigh of frustration. His back was starting to hurt, his knees DID hurt, and he was sure that he was getting a nasty sunburn through it all.

"Not funny. A little amusing, to be honest but not funny ha ha." Sherlock crouched and tugged at the hem of John's shirt. "I got you relieved of your duties here."

"What?" John kneeled back on his heels and stared at Sherlock. He stole a fearful glance at his 'boss', a senior named Jeff who was as nasty as he was corpulent. Jeff had made it known that John was to stay and complete the whole sidewalk before he could go and John knew he was nowhere near to completing his task. Jeff, however, was busy walking away, mouth moving as he counted something in his hand, something that looked suspiciously like money! "Sherlock! Did you...did you just ...BRIBE ...him to let me leave?"

The taller boy shrugged and extended a hand down to John.

"That's...that's...amazing...thank you. I guess." John accepted the hand and let Sherlock pull him up, his muscles protesting as he unfolded into a standing position. "You were the reason, though, that I was here." John's lip curled petulantly but Sherlock was not looking. Instead, he was striding off towards the dorm that John called home. "Wait!" John grabbed up the bin of weeds and the vinegar sprayer, threw them both into the shed that Jeff had kept unlocked, and jogged after his friend.

"Come along, John. We have some evidence to review and some leads to investigate." Sherlock kept walking quickly, making John run after him.

"What did you find out? Anything on the bile and the DNA?" John asked breathlessly as he finally caught up with Sherlock, matching Sherlock's one long stride with 2 of his own.

"Yes. And I have a theory. But we will wait until you shower. You reek of sweat and grass and..." Sherlock suddenly stopped and sniffed at John, making a nose crinkle and a lip curl. "Vinegar?"

"Kills the--"

"Weeds yes, I know. Now then. Up to your room, and have a wash."

"Aye aye, sir," John said with a  grin.

 

Sherlock waited patiently for John, whiling away the time as John showered. He went over and over the clues of the record store owner's murder, and shook his head. Maybe he wasn't the only monster who lived in NYC. Maybe there were others. Something, or someone, had needed the man's liver, and had torn it out of him while the man was still alive. It was a gruesome way to die, and upon investigating the files in Lestrade's office data bank, Sherlock had discovered more murders, from 1984. 5 victims, all living in different areas of the city, all different ethnicities, all different occupations, all different ages, and they all had had their livers removed. What a violent, yet interesting, cause of death, Sherlock thought.

He had asked Lestrade to see the final paperwork on the victim before the body was sent to the family for burial. As Sherlock scanned the reports, sitting in Lestrade's desk chair, something quite odd caught his eye. The man's blood type was listed as AB, the rarest in the world, and in fact, only 8 percent of the population had it. Sherlock frantically had gone back to looking at the other victims, 30 years prior. All of them, save one, had AB positive blood. The last victim was AB negative. Sherlock had paused, steepling his fingers under his chin, trying to remember if he had read about this case, sorting through his mind palace with fleeting ease. An idea had hit him, and he had left the precinct in a rush, long coat trailing out behind him like a cape.

Now as he sat waiting for John, Sherlock thought he might have a clue, and had used his hacking skills to get into the Universal Blood Bank of NYC. He had found 3 other people in the city with AB Positive blood. That was a start.

John came back into the room smelling of deodorant shower gel and hair product. His skin was not too red where he had been out in the sun; in fact, Sherlock observed, John was getting darker with a good tan from his outside work. It was hard to resist coming close to the other boy and smelling, inhaling the true scent beneath the soap and gel and detergent of his clothes. Sherlock merely swallowed hard when John gave him a wicked little smile and dropped his towel to reveal a pair of boxer briefs, red in colour, and nothing else.

John waited for a split second, letting the effect of his clean body and maybe perhaps just a little sexy red pants tempt Sherlock. He had thought about the tall boy in the shower as he was washing, and his hands had almost drifted down to his thickening cock, but propriety--and another boy who had come in to the bathroom to shower--had chased the thought away. Now in the privacy of his room, with Sherlock sitting on the bed, his white shirt open to reveal an expanse of creamy neck skin, John was hoping to repeat what they had done a while ago, on that very bed.

"So, yes, get dressed, and we will be off. I have a few leads, as I said," Sherlock stood suddenly and turned his back to John, pretending to be interested in the photo display Mike had put up on the wall, "so we can take Mycroft's car and ...well, follow them uP." He popped the 'p' as he ended his monologue.

"Yeah ok." John began to dress with a bit of reluctance, still feeling the pull of attraction to the other boy, still hoping that Sherlock would turn around and suggest they stay there, on his bed, doing deliciously naught things to each other, but it seemed as if Sherlock was wanting to be anywhere but here. The disappointment was on John's face as he finished dressing, and grabbed his keys and wallet from the desk. "I'm ready."

"Good then, let's be off." Sherlock opened the room door with a flourish and held it open as John went by. If he saw anything on John's face, he didn't say.

 

They drove in silence to the first house. Sherlock had accessed the man's address from the blood bank, and it was not far by car, though it led them away from the busy part of Brooklyn to the north end where it was more residential. John was glued to the window, thinking about the white skin on Sherlock's neck and aching to put his mouth and teeth on it, to mark it to bruise it to just rip it open and--

"John!" Sherlock said his name with such force that John jumped. He turned his head to look at his friend and managed a weak smile.

"Just daydreaming, Sherlock. Sorry." John fiddled with his lap belt and tried to get the idea of giving Sherlock a hickey out of his mind. "Did you...do you...know the name of this man? I presume it's a man. Is he a suspect?"

"No. Not a suspect and yes, I know his name." Sherlock gracefully parked the car in front of a normal looking 2 story Cape Cod house. There were cheerful curtains in the windows and a bicycle leaned against the front steps. Shrubs and clipped bushes framed the walk up to the door. "Alright." He eased his way out of the car and John followed suit, trailing in the wake that is Sherlock, Sherlock's long coat hanging over his thin body. The other boy knocked once on the front door, a sharp rap, and then stood back and waited. It wasn't long before a woman, around 40 years of age, answered the door, opening it with a suspicious look. She stared first at Sherlock, then at John.

"I am not interested in any magazine subscriptions. And if you're selling the BIble, you should know we are Jewish." She began to shut the door practically in their faces before Sherlock retrieved something from his pocket and held it up for her to see. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise and she stepped back. "Come in then. I guess this is about the theft."

"Yes, the theft. Come along, Patrolman Watson." Sherlock smiled warmly at the lady, practically pushing John inside. John gave him a look that practically begged him to tell what was happening but Sherlock just kept smiling. "Thank you for your time."

"Of course, Detective Lestrade. Would you..like anything to ...drink? I have coffee, tea, some soda." She smiled.

John was amazed. LESTRADE??? Why did she call Sherlock Lestrade? What was happening?

Smoothly, Sherlock kept the smile on his face. "Coffee would be lovely. 2 sugars for me. Patrolman Watson will take his with just milk, Half and Half if you've got it."

The woman nodded and bustled out of the room. John edged closer to where Sherlock was sitting on the couch. "Are you insane?"

"No." Sherlock was looking around the room. One child, younger than 12 but judging from the bike on the front lawn, older than 10. Tall, too, the way the bike seat was raised up. The family lived comfortably, his salary from a surveying firm buying this house almost paid for she's working part time at a day care not because she needs to no because she likes children and an early hysterectomy doomed her from having more than 1 they are happy married for 15 years mother in law is a bit interfering no a lot interfering yet she makes the most of it because the old bag is good to the kid he is at work or maybe he is stopping to buy her some flowers or maybe he is somewhere with the kid oh yes the boy plays baseball and it is his summer league end of season banquet which means they should be home any minute. "Your husband just pulled in." Sherlock accepted the coffee and passed John's cup over to him. Sherlock wished that John would shut his mouth a little and look the part because right now he was staring like an idiot. "John, drink your cuppah. It's good coffee." Looking up at the woman, Sherlock again smiled brilliantly. "Thank you. This hits the spot. Is it Dunkin Donuts blend?"

"Yes, that's the only kind my husband likes." She hurried over to the front door and then nodded at the boys. "I'll tell him you are here, Detective."

"Ah, please do." Sherlock settled back on the couch and looked at John. "Drink your coffee, John. It's good."

"How did you even GET her to BELIEVE you and I are POLICEMEN???" John hissed.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's a trick. A mind trick is all. I looked the part. Oh, and I nicked Lestrade's badge when he wasn't looking."

"Jesus." John sat back and rolled his eyes. It was simply not fathomable to think that this woman would think they are police officers. John hadn't even shaved for the first time! And Sherlock, well, he might look more adult than John but why would anyone in their right mind think that they were...adults?

"John. Just follow my lead. I need to ask this man some questions. He may be the next in line for murder." Sherlock's attention suddenly shifted as the husband came into the room. He extended his hand and greeted Sherlock with a smile.

"I guess the precinct does care about the people. My car...was broken into and...damaged...not a hit and run but more of a vandal type thing. I can't lock my doors even with the key code, and my ID was taken."

"You work for Grimsley Surveying Firm?" Sherlock asked evenly. John was stumped. Even the man seemed to think they were real officers.

"Yes. Worked there for 12 years. Now I am a junior partner." He beamed at his wife who smiled back.

"Ah good. Was your car vandalized at work or at home?"

"At work. LIke I said, my insurance ID card was taken, but nothing else. I have some photos I sent in to the insurance company too. Would you want to see them? Or look at the car?"

"John!" Sherlock said suddenly and John had to refocus because he had been too busy watching the performance of his friend to really register what they were talking about.

"Yes?"

"Go look at the car while I gather a few more facts."

"Look at...?"

"The car, John. The car." He smiled reassuringly at the man and woman who were seated across from them. "Sorry. He's brand new. Came from Flatbush. I'm afraid they are just a tad bit lazy."

"Understandable. I thought all cops were." The man laughed and Sherlock laughed too. It was like he was playing a role in a play, John thought, getting up and leaving the room to go out to look at the car. It was a Buick Lucerne, almost brand new, John noted, and had a moon roof. John was not much with American automobiles but he liked this one. It was nearly as nice as Mycroft's car. He looked it over for obvious marks or scratches, anything indicating there was damage, but found just a series of scratches by the door handle. He supposed that was how the thief gained access.

When John came back in, Sherlock was shaking hands and leaving via the front door. He gave a jaunty wave and then grabbed John's sleeve, propelling him out to the car. As they walked to the car, John heard the husband say something about kids with their magazine subscriptions and the woman answering about she should not have let them in. He wanted to ask Sherlock what was up with that but the words were lost as Sherlock rushed them both to the car. John buckled up and Sherlock began to laugh in earnest.

"What?" John asked.

"It was a mind trick and it worked. It worked, John." Sherlock grinned at John and John grinned back. Suddenly it was important that John be impressed with him, with the whole mind swaying he had tried and succeeded on the couple back there. Mycroft never told him how easy it was. A new trick in the repertoire and all at once, it was a good day.

 


	10. Sing Blue Silver Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made for John's birthday and the boys continue to investigate the case

"So what you're saying is...wait..I dunno what you're saying." John stared out the passenger side window and felt his body tense with the unanswered questions he had in his head.

"Spit it out, John." Sherlock muttered, keeping his eyes on the street ahead and frowning when he realized that he had gone the wrong way on a one way avenue. "Shit." He wheeled the luxury car around so abruptly that John hit his head against the window with a  solid thump!

"OW! Jesus, watch it!!!" John rubbed his forehead gingerly and glared at the other boy. If Sherlock had noticed, he said nothing else, so John just shook his head and tried to quell the crossness that was lingering in his brain. "How, exactly, did those people mistake us for grown adults? Cops no less? I mean, I don't understand. You show them Lestrade's badge--"

"--Yes. I did. Clever, wasn't I?" Sherlock smirked, now leaning forward in  his seat to study the house numbers. They were somewhere in the vicinity of Edgewood, a small township or borough John supposed, of Brooklyn.

"Oh yeah, reallllllly clever, Sherlock." John's tone had a hint of sarcasm which Sherlock ignored.

"And well, they  ....looked but they didn't see."

"They didn't...'see'..." John repeated, frowning.

Sherlock sighed and found a parking spot in front of a non descript looking apartment building. John shook his head and pointed at a sign next to the kerb.

"Towaway zone. We can't park here, Sherlock."

"Of course we can." The tall boy was already heading down the walkway towards the front door and merely called over his shoulder to John. "Look at the placard."

John leaned around the car, then walked over to the driver side to stare at a small window card, placed on the front dash, visible from the street. It was a police card, used with unmarked vehicles.

"JESUS!"

"You're a good Catholic boy, John. You shouldn't evoke the name of your Saviour over what seems to be incredulous surprise. Now. Are you coming with or staying there?"

"I'm...coming with you." John caught up with Sherlock and felt their hands brush ever so slightly while Sherlock scanned the outside call box. The effect was electric. John pulled his hand away and rubbed it, wondering at the tingle he felt from that fleet contact of skin.

"Pay attention, John. We can concentrate on that when we're in Venice." Sherlock was moving his finger down the list of names by their respective buzzers. "Ah! Mr. Jack Sutter." With a slight flourish, Sherlock pressed the button and waited.

"Venice? What...are you talking about, Sherlock? Aren't we solving a murder?"

"Yes. NOW we are. LATER we shall discuss birthday plans." He was about to say something more when a disembodied voice sounded over the loudspeaker, crackling and breaking up but still distinct.

"Yeah?"

"Mr. Sutter. I need to speak with you about a small matter of some unclaimed inheritance. May I come in?" John stared again at his friend, amazed that Sherlock was playing another role. And he sounded so grown up and convincing!

"YEah. I'll buzz ya in. If there's money innit, I am willin to talk with ya."

John swallowed hard and followed Sherlock into the building as the buzzer sounded. With a commanding control, Sherlock pressed the button of the lift, ignoring John standing there wrinkling his nose at the smell of urine and old decay. Some sane voice in John's head was telling him not to go up, but here he was, following his friend like a boss.

The boys went up 5 floors, then exited the old creaky lift into a hallway that smelled, if possible, three times worse than the lobby. John fought the urge to gag and even Sherlock was putting his scarf over his mouth in an effort to shield from the smell. Sherlock found the correct door number and prepared to knock, knuckles poised, when the door opened and a small wiry man wearing blue Dickies edged out into the hall. He looked the 2 boys up and down as Sherlock stared intently at the man's face. John swallowed hard, sure they were going to get busted because this man did not look like he took crap from anyone.

"Come in. And ya better have some good news for me, Sir." The man, apparently Jack Sutter, stood out from the doorway so Sherlock and John could enter the apartment. The smell was better here, the air just laced with the odours of past cooking. John did not sit down but merely looked around, trying to gage why a street smart man like Sutter would fall for Sherlock's line of bull.

"Oh yes, good news indeed. I was wondering, though, first of all, are you employed?" Sherlock wrapped his coat around himself and gave the man a pleasant smile.

"Yeah, I work at the bowling alley as a janitor. And help out here. Anyone's got a plumbing problem, I'm the guy you call."

"Ah, a JACK of all trades, then!" Sherlock fake laughed and looked hard at the man for some sign that he got the joke but there was none so he continued.

"Have you had anyone follow you recently? Any break ins to your apartment? Anyone suspicious tracking you?"

"No. Hey! What's this got to do with my inheritance? You said I was owed money!" Now the man's face was turning red and John couldn't help but clench his fists. If the man got physical with Sherlock, John was ready to defend his friend. But Sherlock merely sighed and whipped out his mobile.

"My boss," Sherlock said evenly, "told me to come here and explain that your great uncle died in Ireland, and if you want to claim your share of the will, you'll have to go there."

"I ain't got the money to go there." The man frowned and looked even meaner. John's heart was pounding, getting prepared for flight or fight, every nerve now singing. Sherlock was nonplussed, however, and just tut tutted, put his phone away, and headed to the door.

"Pity. When you do get the money to fly to Ireland, contact our office. Good day." Sherlock opened the door and pushed John out, motioning towards the dimly lit EXIT sign at the end of the hallway. "Go towards there, John. We'll take the stairs down."

Behind the boys, one Mr. Jack Sutter was swearing. shouting that he didn't even know what firm they were from, that he didn't have any KIN in Ireland, and attempting to follow them while putting on his shoes. Sherlock turned and out of the corner of John's eye, John saw the other boy nod almost imperceptibly and then there was a lot of swearing as a loud thunk sounded. John whipped his head around only to see the man trying to fight with a large picture that had fallen off the wall and had apparently hit the man. By now, though, both he and Sherlock were safely out the door and down the stairs, Sherlock leading the way, coat flapping about his long legs like a crazy cape.

Once they were downstairs and out of the building, Sherlock turned to John.

"You've got questions."

"Yes. Yes, I do." John got into the car and buckled his lap belt, then looked at his friend who was leaning against the driver's seat, a small smile playing out on his lips. "WHY are we talking to these random people?"

"Not random, John. These people are the same blood type, the rarest on the planet. Just like the record store owner, just like the others who were murdered in the same way 30 years ago. I need to find them and see where they live, see if they have had anything strange happen in the last few weeks or days. I do believe our killer is targeting them for their livers, for their blood types. It has to be compatible, don't you see?"

"The killer...is....eating their livers?" John screwed his face up in a kind of questioning disgust.

"Not sure if he is eating them or what exactly he is doing with them but apparently, the killer needs the livers. And then, he'll go away. Oh what a glorious mystery!" Sherlock was now smiling broadly, his whole face lit up like Christmas.

"OK. That explains what we're doing. But it does not explain how these people think we're...we're someone we aren't. And what was that about Venice???"

"Do you want some coffee? Or tea?" Sherlock started the engine and the car purred out into traffic. "There has to be a Starbucks around here."

"Sherlock. You're changing the subject." John's voice was a challenge, a kind of low growl.

"I think I might have a scone with my tea. Fancy one?"

"Whatever, Sherlock." John sighed heavily and decided to give it up for now. Sherlock was not being forthcoming with anything so he might as well save his breath.

 

They sat in companionable silence, Sherlock checking his mobile at times, his face lit up from the screen. John watched him then, noticed how pale and ethereal the boy looked. Beautiful. Fluid. Cold.

"Why are you staring at me, John?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from his mobile, one long elegant finger scrolling down the screen.

"I...I..was..just going to ask you something," John stammered.  A blush was spreading across his cheeks; he could feel it starting and not for the first time did he curse himself for being so fair skinned.

Sherlock sighed and put his  mobile away with a click. It disappeared into the pocket of his blue linen like suit jacket under his heavy coat. He stared at John with curiosity of his own, head titling a bit as he studied the blond boy. "What is on your mind, then, John." Not a question. More of a statement.

"How did those people think we weren't...kids.."John finished strongly, his voice finding volume and conviction. "I mean, neither of us look like adults, especially not to people who are ACTUALLY adults."

"It's a parlour trick, John. Surely you know by now that I am not above influencing people about perceptions. You just have to make them think they are seeing someone else." Sherlock took a sip of his tea and bit off a piece of a cinnamon scone.

"So you ..influence them...to make them think we aren't...who we are." John shook his head. "Wow."

"Wow?" Sherlock cocked his head and stared into John's eyes, incandescent meeting cobalt.

"I mean, yeah, like wow. That's a great trick. Sherlock." John bent his head and studied the table top, running his hand over the false grooves in the veneer. "You're like a magician."

"Not a magician, John. And if I told you what, you wouldn't like me." Sherlock seemed to wrap up into himself just then, his coat tighter against and around his body, pale face ducking away from John, suddenly swallowing, his throat threatening to close up.

"That's not true, Sherlock!" John hissed, reaching across the table and holding Sherlock's hand. As their fingers touched, John felt the current of electricity through his whole arm, reaching inwards, and he trembled slightly under its power. What was this besides exquisite?

"Yes, it's true, John. I'm not who you really think I am." Sherlock's face now turned up, and there was sadness as well as age in those beautiful eyes. John shook his head.

"No. No, I won't ever think badly of you. You're my friend. Nobody can make me think you're bad." John tilted his chin up defiantly and Sherlock smiled a weary smile at the stubbornness of the smaller boy.

" So loyal so quickly....Suppose I tell you." Sherlock stopped. His own heart, what there was of it, practically stopped. He heard the voices in his head, the voice of Mycroft and of Mummy, telling him never say it aloud. Never share with a human. Never tell them the truth. Heartbreak. Regret. Malice. Suspicion. Defeat. Caring is not an advantage. All lives end. All hearts are broken.

"Sherlock. I would listen to anything you tell me. ANYTHING. I'm your friend. And you're not going to get rid of me." John was now holding on to Sherlock's hand tightly, ignoring the stares from the other patrons who thought it impolite that 2 boys their age display affection like that. "You can trust me. Please."

Sherlock watched John's face, so proud and stubborn and defiant in the face of his friend's hesitation. It was never that simple, was it, never black and white, always shades of grey. Yet, this boy with the dusting of freckles and the long sandy eyelashes, this boy who smelled of the sun and lilies and tea, this boy who was willing to listen to Sherlock and to believe in Sherlock, this boy who made Sherlock tingle whenever he touched him...this boy was different.

"Alright." Sherlock leaned back but still held John's hand. "Let me tell you a story."

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 


	11. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Sherlock's background, told from his point of view....

_I remember only a large chasm, opening up for me when it happened. I thought it was soft, endless, and I drifted, not knowing how to really get out of it only knowing that I wanted to stay there forever._

_I turned on a Tuesday. It has always been my least favourite day of the week and as if to substantiate that claim, it had been on a Tuesday a few months prior when I had found out that I was dying. My parents, well. I could say they were grief stricken although certainly, who could blame them? I was 16 years of age, at the top of my class in Harrow, doing and saying all of the right things yet thinking to myself that there had to be so much more. More than just silly study sessions and roles in the drama department to try out for, hoping to see my name on a list posted at the Advisory Board. Sherlock Adams, he of the class of 1995, destined for greatness yet determined to throw as many  monkey wrenches as he could on the way to glory. There was the library systems takeover, a complete hacking of the audit system, and the unfortunate episode with the burro and the flower gardens. However, people actually liked me, and I had many friends even among the professors. I just couldn't seem to focus on one thing. Instead, I always had several irons in the fire, all going at once, all red hot with details and plans, and that was to be my greatest regret. Never finishing my life._

_When the doctors told my parents--Gwen and Douglas Adams, a couple of mid rich baby boomers with a house and a white picket fence on their minds when they first met each other. I came along, however, 3 months shy of the wedding, and when I was born, Gwen had decided she never wanted another child. Seems the pain was too great or something along those lines. She suffered with Post Partum Depression after my birth but then got help in the form of some valium and a drink or 2, never close to addiction but that paved   my sensory development from the time I could remember. The smell of her. Alcohol mixed with medicinal drama. And then my father, good old Douglas, or Dougie as his mother called him would work late at the office (he was an accountant of some notoriety, working for the Playhouse on Griffen Square and subsequently the Arts Department of Leeds) and come home to see Gwen, his wife, his lawfully wedded wife , splayed out on the sofa with a good whiskey in one hand and the remote in another while I curiously did not cry. I had nothing to say except for the mere fact that if my father had not come home when he did, I would have never been fed the evening meal. But I digress--they were alarmed, my father more than my mother. I had suspected that she had taken a little more than her usual 20 mg dosage of Diazepam and she just curled her lip in what she hoped was a moderate pout of disbelief and shock. I sat there numbly as the doctor read out the results of my blood tests, numerous they were because they had to be SURE, don't you see, John? They had to be sure. And they were_

_Thalassaemia_

_Fatal. Genetic (ooo now there was a surprise, John. My parents were the beginning and the end of me. How ironic wouldn't you say?) Somewhat treatable although prolonging the life was the end result. I would soon develop chronic anemia as well as crippling bone pain and shortness of breath. Would I want to live like that? Live. Ha. A relative word. I was ready. I was. I was ready to overdose on something medicinal, something I could obtain quite easily from the boys who sold such things. I knew them. I sometimes indulged in some cocaine or some other kind of stimulant. I had even injected myself with heroin sometimes but instead of the depressant effect it was to have, it made me sad and stimulated. I was a boy with all the answers, already one foot in the grave, the other foot kicking out at my parents for having never really loved me, only tolerated me. Are you still with me, here, John? I hope I'm not boring you._

 

John was transfixed, looking at Sherlock with wide open eyes. He was not going anywhere by the looks of his solid yet small body seated squarely in the chair. "Tell me what happened, Sherlock. Tell me and then I am going to give you the biggest and best hug you have ever had in your life."

Sherlock swallowed hard, resisting the urge to just gather John up and hold him close to his shaking body. He had been telling John in such a matter of fact way that it suggested he was emotionless yet inside he was boiling over with grief and sadness, knowing that if John KNEW, if john REALLY KNEW who he was, WHAT he was, there was that big chance that John Watson, his beautiful boy who was amazed and surprised and inspired with Sherlock, would leave. Leave and never come back.

He wanted to take that chance. He wanted to see if John Watson was as different as Sherlock thought he was.

_SO I thought about it. It would have been so easy to just take my own life before the disease ravaged me and destroyed me. I wasn't looking forward to that at all. I did want to live but not in pain and certainly not at the expense of an illness that would claim the best years of my life._

_I was deep in plans for my demise when I met Mycroft. He was coming home from a state dinner, having started out as a junior ambassador before he got all tangled up with the MOD and the flunkies there. I walked out in front of his car, oh please don't look like that, John. I didn't plan on committing suicide from a grill and a heavy foot. I was merely lost in my mind palace. And I heard the screech of the tires from somewhere else, from a great distance, but the driver stopped before he hit me and as the headlights captured my surprised form--and I WAS surprised, John, since I never even thought that I was crossing a street let alone a highway as I planned what my suicide would be like--Mycroft Holmes knew he had found his little brother._

"But why did Mycroft choose you? And why did he have to have a brother anyways? Didn't he have a real one?" John asked, frowning as he tried to understand.

"Shhhhh. My story will continue. Get yourself a refill of tea and another scone" Sherlock shoved a ten dollar bill across the veneer table "And I will go on."

John reluctantly got up and got them each a refill but when he indicated 2 scones, Sherlock just shook his head. John then changed the order to only one for himself, and with a tray of tea and scone, made his way back to the table.

"OK. I'm ready. Please. Go on."

 

_Mycroft saved my life. He is not really my brother, not by blood. Well, in fact, maybe he IS by blood. My blood. HIs blood. Intermingled. I had a chance at the life I so wanted, even though I had already done my best to show utter disregard for it with my choice of recreational past times. He is a....Vampyre, John. Oh no, don't look like that. We're not all Dark Shadows or Edward Cullen in that silly series of movies. I can certainly attest to being fond of drinking blood but we get it from willing participants, people who are cleared with a series of tests to make sure they aren't diseased or prone to genetic mutations of the sort. We call them 'cows' because that's what they are, John. I have never met anyone who supplies us with blood, although Mycroft has and he says they're just typical humans. They are paid well for their contributions. It's not like the Community expects them to do this for free. Pro bono, John, like everything else in life._

_So now you're wondering did he bite me? Did he bite me to turn me? That is what you're thinking isn't it? I see. Well, I shall be less than explicit in the details. He did indeed have to bite my carotid artery to turn me, and not only that but he had to have a seer to oversee the process. A Vampyre cannot turn a human just by bite alone. No, there was that, the pain and the burn that rippled through my body. I knew I was dying. I could see the darkness creeping up on me and I was so damned fucking scared. I held on to Mycroft like a man without a lifeboat on a rough sea and he, the Gods love him, held me back. He whispered to me that I should let go and when I let go it was like the best and worst high I have ever had._

Sherlock was quiet, lost in thought, so John just waited, watching the boy as tiny red tears slid down his cheeks, unabated and perhaps unnoticed. With a trembling finger, John reached out and touched his fingertip to the pale cheek, scooping up the reddish liquid on the pad of his finger, and he put it to his mouth, marveling at the taste, the salt, the rich earthy taste in that one tiny droplet.

"Oh God, John. Don't." Sherlock was immediately up and around to John's side of the table. Defiantly, John stuck out his jaw and pushed Sherlock's hands away.

"It's fine. It's just a drop." His voice dropped lower. "You are so beautiful when you are in pain."

Sherlock felt like time had stopped. He had to remind himself that they were in public, that he couldn't just throw John down and take what he knew they both wanted.

"Go on." John's whispered roughly, hands on either side of Sherlock's head, holding on gently only to press his lips against Sherlock's mouth, and the room suddenly started to spin for both of them.

"I need to...to continue from ...over there..." Sherlock stumbled over to his chair and collapsed, laying partly on the table. One of the baristas made a comment and John glared at her.

"We're paying customers, Ma'am." His attention to Sherlock now, he pressed a kiss into Sherlock's open palm. "Pray continue."

_It took me 3 nights and most of the third day until I became..what I am now. By then, Mycroft had made the arrangements with my parents, paid them a tidy sum for their silence and whisked me away to NYC. I was weak when I arrived, my body still shaking and partially paralysed. I remember my time in increments of pain. Sometimes it was my stomach that felt like it would turn itself inside out, and I suppose in one way it did, although now I can tolerate and even enjoy solid food. I love bakery products and good cuts of meat. Don't even say it, John. I know what you're thinking and you are correct. Rare is my favourite flavor. However, I digress once again. NYC became my haunting ground. I love it at night, I love it during the day and on holidays and sleepy days and snowy days and sunny days. It's amazing, isn't it? Although sometimes I miss London with an ache that makes my teeth hurt. Mycroft introduced me to my parents, here, and yes, don't look so surprised. Mummy always wanted to have another child, although in retrospect, I imagine Mycroft would have found someone a bit less ...rowdy...than me. had he known...._ Sherlock's voice trailed off and John gave the boy another supporting squeeze on his hand... _but that's in the past. Here we are then. I'm older than 16 obviously, but will always stay this way. Frozen in time._

"Do you...have teeth...ya know...like...fangs?" John blushed and Sherlock began to laugh.

"Yes. My canines grow. Sometimes, they grow because I am thinking too hard. Other times, they merely grow at the sight of a nice tanned neck. Like yours." Sherlock took a sip of his tea, recovering now since John had been nothing but a good listener. "You know, my brother would say I have to kill you, to protect myself and him and our Community from you, a mere human, knowing the truth."

"What? Kill ...me??" John was suddenly rigid, ashen beneath his tan.

"Oh don't worry. That's just silly." Sherlock waved his hand nonchalantly.

"Sherlock!" John leaned forward, his breath a loud hiss of air, "You just threatened me."

"I merely stated a fact, John. I didn't say I would. I said my brother would say that I had to kill you. Besides, you're under my protection."

"Oh good. Under your protection even though you have to kill me..." John bit into his scone, a scowl breaking his pleasant features.

"John." Sherlock said his name and it felt like nectar under his tongue.

"What?" John kicked his feet under the table, hitting the metal post in the middle.

"I am teasing you. You really are protected. I wouldn't let anything happen to you." His hand was tentative as he reached across and held John's hand and when their fingers slipped and slid against each other, John relaxed.

"You are beautiful, Sherlock. I have ....always thought that. I don't care what you are." John's face easily slid into another defiant scowl and for a moment, Sherlock sensed how true his heart was, this John Watson who had immediately come to his defense in the world of men. "You and me, we have something. Right?" He looked up and in that heartbreaking lovely moment, Sherlock was transfixed with those eyes of steady blue.

"Yes," he breathed. And it was alright in that moment. The very moment that would define them in the future.

"Now. About Venice." John played with Sherlock's fingers, rubbing them this way and that.

"What about it? We have a case to solve, then off we go for beginning of school holidays, which coincidentally, the Yanks call Labour Day. Nothing labourious about it, save for people who work usually get time off. And that is precisely when your birthday falls--September 8th, am I correct?"

"Yes but I can't afford-"

"John, I'm not asking you to pay for anything. I want to take you to Venice. Let me do that."

"I have never been there...never been anywhere....well, here, obviously but only because-"

"Shhhh." Sherlock put a finger on John's lips and shook his head. "We'll talk about it later. Right now, I have an idea. Let's go back to my house and map something out. I have a feeling we're going to find a breakthrough in this case."

"OK." John stood and grabbed the trash from the table to dump it into the bin by the door. "But if you make me go back to that apartment building, you'd better give me a gas mask because I swear to God, I will puke all over those Santoni shoes of yours."

"John! I'm shocked!" Sherlock feigned a surprised expression.

"Because I said I'd puke?" John laughed.

"No, because you knew what brand my shoes are."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really liking these characters we have all created in our minds and hearts. I hope you all feel the same. Comments welcome. Kudos appreciated.


	12. Machine  Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reflects on what's happening to him; John takes a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised a couple of people I would add some chapters. This isn't anywhere near to being done but I am enjoying creating this world with John and Sherlock. Sorry I have not updated. Being sick is no fun...

"If I pin this location here-" Sherlock stepped on his desk and pushed a pin into the wall of his bedroom; "And this pin here, based on the location of the couple with the one child. Oh that would be tedious to have a boy playing baseball or little slugger or whatever the normal people call it and then this here-" Another pin into the wall. He took a small teetering step back and hoped his feet weren't too long for his desk surface, but then again John Watson wanted to be a doctor, not an artist how silly to think that he could paint and doodle for a living, so if he fell, then John would patch him up again oh and then to add the string. He wrapped string tightly around each push pin, the pins being the locations of the people with the rare blood type while the murder scene was somewhere in the middle

"Oh." Sherlock gasped and stared at the intricate string web. "OH!" He leaped off the desk, graceful as an antelope, and whirled to tell John his findings. And stopped. John's upper body was leaning against the headboard of Sherlock's bed, and his legs were splayed in front of him. His head was turned at an odd angle and his eyes. Were. Shut. "Oh."

Sherlock walked over to the bed and carefully kneeled beside the sleeping John. He heard everything. HIs heart beat with a  regular 'shush shush' as the blood filled and left the chambers; his breathing was slow and steady. His mouth was open just a bit --gravity, Sherlock supposed because John wasn't snoring--and his features were relaxed. As if John was made of porcelain, Sherlock pulled the sleeping boy down on the bed until he was laying with his blond haired head on the pillows and his arms were relaxed at his sides.

Oh

Suddenly, the crime and the victim and the theory mattered little. John Watson, the amazing boy who thought Sherlock was brilliant and had held him tightly against him once upon a time was the only thing that did.

Sherlock sat beside John on the bed, in the same position that John had previously occupied, before Sherlock had made John comfortable. His legs rested against the very warmth that emanated from the boy and the beating of his heart was almost hypnotic.

Shush shush.

Shush shush.

Blood in. 

Blood out.

Sherlock closed his eyes. Murder could wait. He needed this. He had never had this. And this...this was glorious. John was glorious. John hadn't run when Sherlock had told his story, even though as the boys came back to Sherlock's house, John had protested a bit saying he needed something to eat, something to drink, some sleep to catch up with. But nothing about being scared of what Sherlock was. Is. No, nothing like that. John was brave and bold and understanding. He made the Moran's and the Moriarty's and the others pale in comparison. No, not pale. There WAS no comparison. John Watson was in a league of his own. A UNIVERSE of his own!

Indeed, how boring school had seemed when Sherlock had come back. The knowledge that the professors tried to impart was boring and tedious and downright dull. Sherlock had come back for Mycroft but was staying there because of John.

For a moment, Sherlock pictured them together in a cottage, still the same on the outside, youthful and glowing and stuck at 16 forever. They could raise floppy eared sheep and have a colony of hives behind their house. They could sleep late, have sex in the bathtub, and eat toffee bars dunked in vanilla syrup. John could retire from medicine..no, wait...maybe he didn't even have to do medicine. Maybe they could just...could just...

John could draw and paint on an easel. Sherlock would buy him whatever he wanted. Brushes and pastels and chalk and oil and sketch pads and canvas and Sharpies and pencils! John would always be bright of eye and quick to smile. Sherlock could even solve some crimes from the comfort of their living room, leaned up against John who was always there. It was always John.

But then, Sherlock suddenly realized...something...he would have to turn John for it to happen. Sherlock was always going to remain 16 years old. In body. Not in mind, no but in appearance. Would John want to remain that young too?

Shush shush.

Shush shush.

Blood in.

Blood out.

Sherlock stared at John and smiled, pushing out the thoughts that threatened to derail his dreams. He tentatively touched the fine soft hairs that grew next to John's ear, hair not yet sideburns but nevertheless soon to be. John wasn't shaving yet. Sherlock traced John's jaw line, the soft skin under his fingertip, teasing and promising more. John's nose, slightly upturned but unique, like John himself, and Sherlock wondered if John inherited that from his mother or his father.

"John." Sherlock said quietly and John stirred, eyelashes fluttering in a dream sleep, still not conscious but close to it. Sherlock leaned down and kissed John's cheek and then brushed his lips against John's slightly parted lips. He tasted like John. Smelled like John. Felt like John.

"Sherlock..." John sleepily rubbed his face and yawned. Sherlock thought of a mouse in a story book, the one where the mother mouse had awoke the baby mouse in time for tea. Ridiculous really. Mice wearing clothes and drinking tea. Sherlock frowned just a bit and John snorted. Dark blue eyes were staring at Sherlock. John was wide awake.

"Hello."

Nice nap. What time is it?" John checked his mobile and frowned. "3 am? You daft bugger! It's 3 am!!!" John was now sitting up but neither his tone or the look on his face was serious. "I am starving."

"I fed you a granola bar. It's all we have in the house." Sherlock petulantly crossed his legs at the ankles and stretched his arms up in the air.

"You are such a liar. I saw a fridge full of stuff. Go make me a sandwich." John said crossly. He was tired and hungry and in no mood for Sherlock's foolishness. Maybe Sherlock didn't have to eat but John was still growing and needed his nutrition. Or so John thought that was a good excuse for his appetite.

"No. I want to explain the web that I made and show you where we need to go to capture the killer." Sherlock's gaze was steady.

"What? Us...capture...now wait a minute...I didn't sign up to capture anyone. I thought you were consulting. We can't 'capture' anyone. We don't have weapons or anything!" John was now more than wide awake but he stared at the design on the opposite wall. Sherlock vaulted off the bed and stood up on the desk, all in one big movement.

"Look here, John." Sherlock pointed at the murder scene. John knew that because Sherlock had placed a sticky that he had wrote the word 'murder' on it. "The record store owner. Here." He pointed to another push pin in the design. This one had the word 'first murder' written on it. "I went through Lestrade's computer to compare similar crimes. There was another one, about 2 weeks before the record store owner, in a bakery alley in Queens. Again, the victim had AB blood. Again, the victim had his liver ripped out."

"Why didn't Lestrade tell us about that murder?"

"Because he wasn't chief detective on it. Some idiot named DImmock was the DI so I assume that Lestrade hadn't had time to compare notes with his fellow constables. OK, now pay close attention, John." Sherlock pointed to the outlying push pins.

"I am," John said sullenly. He was probably never going to get breakfast, and by now the granola bars were sounding good.

"SO you are. Forget your stomach for once. There's plenty of time to eat once we figure this out." Sherlock then indicated the whole string and push pin diagram. "What do you think? Where is our killer?"

John scrunched up his face and sniffed once. Sherlock tried to pretend he didn't hear the sound of snot being inhaled only to trickle down John's throat. Sherlock wondered briefly what else John could put in that throat but then focused on the task at hand. Venice, he told himself. Solve the crime and go to Venice. The smaller boy came closer and put one finger up to trace the string, his eyes focusing and his eyebrows causing a crease on his forehead.

"This. Here. Somewhere...here.." John picked out the exact centre of the diagram and tapped it twice with a fingertip.

"Brilliant. You are hardly a genius but you do have a certain illumination that shines through being dull and ordinary." Sherlock grinned and pushed a pin beside John's finger.

"Hey! Dull and ordinary!" John drew back and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Oh don't worry, John. Most people are. It's just that you possess a quality that..." Sherlock leaned close and let the tips of his fangs show, "I like."

"Oh well, that's good." John's gaze flickered to Sherlock's lips but he stood his ground. "Now that we solved the puzzle, are you going to feed me?"

"Very well, John. I could use a smoothie myself." Sherlock whirled towards the door then just as suddenly whirled back, catching a surprised John but the shoulders and pulling him close so their lips were inches from each other's.

Shush shush.

Shush shush.

Blood in.

Blood out.

John mashed his lips against Sherlock's and took possession of the kiss. With a tiny grunt, John pushed against Sherlock and grasped the taller boy's hips with his hands, gripping the bones beneath the skin almost savagely. Sherlock ground against John, feeling helpless and hungry. He ended the kiss and nibbled along John's tanned neck, strong and soft and alive and warm under his canines. The urge to bite him was almost too much but he held on and felt the shudders of pleasure right to his groin. Just as suddenly John ended the kiss and pushed Sherlock away. To Sherlock's satisfaction, John was looking wrecked, pupils blown and breath coming in small gasps.

"Food first. Then we solve the crime. Then we talk about Venice."

And even if Sherlock was used to being the boss, the leader, the big cheese, he allowed John the privilege to do this, to order him around like a soldier.

"As you wish, John. This way to the kitchen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Red....<3


	13. Stone In Love/Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just want to know you better know you better now...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta for the comments and kudos. You guys...and Sherlock and John...keep me inspired. Cheers! Xx.

There are approximately 100,000 KM of blood vessels in a human body.

There are 2 veins that lead in to the human heart--the Vena Cava and the Pulmonary.

There are 2 arteries that go out of the human heart--the Aorta and the Pulmonary.

Hydration is the key to a successful orgasm in a human male.

Information passes between neurons mediated by a chemical event. An action potential will propagate down the length of a neuron until it reaches the end. When this happens, certain chemicals are released from inside the neuron to the outside. These chemicals are known as neurotransmitters. The specific neurotransmitters will diffuse, and subsequently bind to specific receptors on the adjacent neuron. This will set up an action potential in this adjacent neuron and it will then be able to propagate it's own action potential.

Love is itself a chemical reaction.

There are no such things as coincidences.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

John blew the wrong way through his straw, resulting in an odd noise that resembled a gurgle and a squirrel chatter. He yawned and looked at Sherlock who was sitting opposite him at the kitchen table, head down so all John could really see was a crown cap of curls, twisted and unruly. Sherlock was engrossed in his phone and had been since the 2 boys had come downstairs to find something to eat. John slid his arm towards Sherlock, his hand reaching out to grasp the muted red smoothie in a tall sundae glass that sat so far untouched in front of the slender boy.

"Don't" came the order softly, but there was enough of a serious tone underlying that one word to make John reconsider playing around with his friend.

"Sherlock. It's going on 5 am." John fidgeted in his chair, scuffing his sneakers along the marbled tile floor.

Sherlock said nothing in response. John sighed and shifted again, satisfied with the scuffing noise and wanting to bother Sherlock just a little. John had figured out Sherlock must have a very good sense of hearing so any errant sound might cause a reaction. Again with the scuffing of his shoes. Again no response.

"Come on! I need to move around or I swear I will fall asleep right here! Who are you texting? And you haven't even sipped your, er, cocktail...elixir...smoothie, whatever you want to call it." John was aware that he sounded petulant and close to exasperated. He wondered if Sherlock could also tell that it wasn't just food he needed.

"I am texting, John. Figuring out some facts. Committing a route to memory." Sherlock looked up for the first time in what seemed like hours to John. "And if you make that horrible noise one more time, I will burn your shoes." Head back down, fingers flying over the keyboard. John threw himself back in his chair and crossed his arms. He felt left out. Abandoned. Ignored. All the above and more.

"Sherlock. Why don't I just get a cab from here and go back to the dorm. I could study for our maths test and--"

"You know as well as I do there won't be any studying when you go back. Just be patient, John. A little longer is all I ask. Do you think you can give me that?"

"Yeah." John pursed his lips and started to jiggle his legs. He watched Sherlock's knowing fingers and wished for not the first time that he could be as rapid with his typing and deductions as Sherlock was. Speaking of his mobile...John pulled it from his jeans pocket and slid the bar over, trying not to look at the wallpaper that he had set on the screen last week, when he had left home. It was a photo of Harry and him, taken by his dad when they had traveled as a family to a sunflower field so his mum could fetch some seeds to plant. In the photo, John was grinning, mouth crinkling with unspoken amusement. And Harry was beautiful, her fine blonde hair blowing in the breeze, her skin clear and tanned, her eyes happy. A lump threatened to form in John's throat but he pushed it aside when he discovered he had a text. Not just 1 text, but 2 texts! Immediately he thought of Stamford but no, the number was unknown to him. He frowned a bit and opened the first text.

 _His teeth sunk into my flesh with desirable pain_  
I didn't cry out nor did I refuse him  
I gave into his need  
For the warmth that ran inside of my veins  
I felt drained with passion and desire  
Weakness pulled me to my knees 

Well that one made little or no sense. John clicked on the other, and saw a photo attachment begin to fill in. It was 2 figures, and as it pixelated, John could see it was Sherlock and him walking together from the crime scene. He felt his heart beat faster as he read the message that accompanied it.

_Sherlock Holmes is a liar. If you want the truth, come to me._

"Sherlock?"

John waited and was aware that his hand was shaking slightly as he held on to the phone.

"Sherlock..." A little more forceful this time. John rose and walked around the table, being careful not to bump his hip into the edge of the rectangular top. He pushed his own phone under Sherlock's nose. Immediately, Sherlock stood, practically knocking John down in  his hurricane force to stand. He turned to John with eyes dark and hooded but stopped when he saw the phone screen in front of him. "What is this? More importantly...WHO is this?" John touched Sherlock's arm but the boy suddenly whirled and began to rub his temples with his hands.

"Damn him! Damn him and his minions and his host and his maker and his whole rotten soul! Damn him to HELL AND BACK!" Sherlock stood still, panting slightly from his outburst. John was a bit frightened and waited until Sherlock turned towards John again before he spoke.

"It's ok." His voice was soft and reassuring. He willed it to stretch out to his friend and wrap him from head to toe in saccharine and peppermint and soothe him telling him he was fine, John was fine, the whole thing was fine.

"He knows about you. I was careless. I should have known Moran would say something." He grabbed John's phone and looked at the texts again. "He was there at the crime scene, of course he was."

"So? And who is 'he' anyways? Who's Moran?"

"Moran is Moriarty's lackey. He'll do anything for Moriarty, even without the Charm." Sherlock quietly gave the phone back to John. "Erase them please."

"Yes, yes, I'll do just that." John eagerly pressed the delete button and both messages vanished into the realm of electronic funk. He tried to move his body against Sherlock's back but the other boy spun around and grabbed John by the shoulders.

"I need to protect you."  Sherlock was so close to John that John could see the coloured blocks of dazzle in those amazing irises. "I need to keep you close to me. More so than usual. Move in with me."

"What? Sherlock! I have a scholarship of merit to pay for my room and board." John felt the vice like grips of Sherlock's fingers on his own shoulders. There would be purple bruises there the next day but for now, it felt possessive and John liked that.

"Mycroft can get the money back or whatever. You were targeted by Moriarty. I need to make sure nothing happens to you."

"I'm pretty good at protecting myself, ya know." John lowered his head, both pleased and surprised that Sherlock would offer him sanctuary.

"But not as good as I would be at protecting you, my John." Sherlock swept John up into an embrace. They stood pressed against each other, not moving, Sherlock's hands caressing John's back. John felt the calming press of those amazing hands through his t shirt and leaned into it.

"Your John? I'm your John?" John nuzzled Sherlock's ear. He had never been in love before but was pretty certain this was what it felt like. His body felt weak and putty like, malleable for Sherlock to mold and form and sculpt. John liked the back caresses but better than that just the way they fit together was nothing short of astonishment to him.

"Have been since the first time I saw you." Sherlock hummed against the tanned skin of John's neck and was pleased when John shivered in response.

'Nuh uh. You didn't like me, remember? Said you didn't have mates." John began to run his hands up Sherlock's slender back until his fingers were touching that hair, oh that magnificent mop of ebony hair. Soft and pressed into just the right amount of curls. It had to be an exact science, John thought stupidly.

"Well I couldn't be a pushover, could I?" Sherlock was straighter now, interested in what John was doing. If he was a cat, he would be pressing his head against the palms of John's smallish hands, hoping for a nice head rub. There was nothing better than someone playing in his hair, and Sherlock realized with a small pang of regret that the last person who had done that was Mummy.

"You didn't have to play so hard to get, either." John continued his ministrations to Sherlock's hair and was suddenly pulled down onto Sherlock's lap, butt thumping hard against Sherlock's thighs. "Oh!" Eager hands drew John's face towards Sherlock's and at once they were kissing, lips smashed in an ungainly fashion but seeking heat and spark. John's heart was thumping faster as he eagerly licked at Sherlock's mouth to open it but it was Sherlock who took the lead, pressing tongue to John's lips and seeking entrance into John's mouth. Long fingers held John's face tightly but elegantly, and John felt like he was falling. Sharp teeth under his own tongue, and oh was that a prick of his tongue? John moaned and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.

"Let me," whispered his young lover, and Sherlock lapped at the blood that was oozing from John's tongue. It was heady and rushed him into a pull that was older than time. More of John more of John more of John more of John let him fill me let him fill the emptiness let him flow through me

"Sherlock!" John pulled away, holding his mouth. His eyes were wide and bright with unshed tears.

"John." Sherlock felt the flutter of panic and wondered what he had been doing to make John so upset. He was going to stand and try to make things better. He could not lose his wonderful John Watson!

"Sherlock, wait stop, sit down, you're dumping me off your lap." John held on to Sherlock by looping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders.

"I hurt you. Oh Gods, I never wanted to hurt you but you tasted so good so sweet oh God, I am a monster!"

"No. Please." John propped his elbows onto Sherlock's shoulders and carded his hands through that magnificent hair. "You just...you moved too fast..I...I never...you have to give me some time to catch up is all." John was grinning the grin that Sherlock had loved since he had seen it for the first time. If John's eyes were fraught with tears, it was because of the emotion that he felt. Sherlock knew this now.

"Still," Sherlock whispered, "I hurt you."

"A little. Just...just watch the teeth eh." John gave Sherlock a peck on the nose and then rubbed that same nose with his own, causing Sherlock to giggle. "Did I tell you today how amazing you are?"

"No. And it's almost 6 am. DO go on as to how brilliant you think I am." Sherlock tried a smile and it seemed to fit.

"You are brilliant. And amazing. And handsome. And gorgeous. And a vampire. And beautiful. And smart! I bet you don't know what I am thinking right now." John leaned away from Sherlock, still smiling.

"That you're hungry. Again." Sherlock sighed with mock exasperation.

"You win the prize!" John stood up and Sherlock felt his body miss the heat. "Can we just get on with solving the crime, after I eat something more substantial than a couple of granola bars."

"You're going to have to cook it. I can't cook." Sherlock frowned and picked up John's phone. "And you're going to have to move in."

"Sherlock--"

"I mean it, John. I do not want anything to happen to you." Sherlock fixed John with a look.

"We'll talk about it." John held up a hand to Sherlock who looked as though he would protest. "First food. And then talk. Plus we have a crime to solve. I need energy for that. We going after this guy ourselves?" After the kissing session, John was feeling quite brazen.

"LEstrade is going to meet us there in the morning, well I say morning. He said about 9 am. That gives us a few hours to get you moved in."

"Sherlock..." John's tone was impatient.

"Or...to talk...about how we are going to move you in...to here..with me...."

"Do you ever eat any real food? Like besides coffee and biscuits? And um that?" John indicated the shake.

"Yes. What did you have in mind to make?" Sherlock put his arms around John from behind and buried his nose in John's hair. John. His John. He smelled like tea and lilies and sunshine and the beach during low tide when the water was gone and you could write words in the sand..

"Eggs. With cheese. And toast. And potatoes."

"Mmmmmmm. Keep talking." Sherlock nuzzled John's neck.

"I mean it, Sherlock! I am starving!" John giggled with his threat and then gave up and turned around. "You git! Don't you need to go to your coffin and sleep?"

"Not tired. I can stay awake for days. And I sleep in a bed. You were sleeping on it not too long ago." Sherlock began to kiss the exposed areas of his John's neck.

Suddenly Sherlock stopped and stiffly turned towards the kitchen door. John opened his eyes (he had closed them when Sherlock was doing such remarkable things to his neck) and saw Sherlock's brother filling the doorway.

"Seriously, Mycroft. Timing!"


	14. Stone In Love Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To catch a killer sometimes you have to think like one...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the interest in this work of fiction. I love the kudos and comments and all the love you continue to give this frazzled author! Love to you and yours back tenfold!

How many words ever wounded someone? Were there specific words? Specific cadences? Specific phrases? And how were those attacking volley of words said? Were they yelled? Murmured? Said in a flat monotone? Screamed with a cry in the throat? Did words ever kill? Maim? Mutilate? Torture?

Sherlock sighed and shifted in the back seat of the taxi he and John were riding in. They had to take a cab because the keys to Mycroft's car had been taken away from the boys by a disgusted looking Mycroft. It was barely 5:30 am, and the world that was the great maw of NYC was still awake and going strong. Garbage trucks, street sweepers, delivery vans, Towne and Countrys packed with commuters heading into the city. It was like a tidal wave of metal. Sherlock snuck a glance at John, who had caught a second wind and was sitting upright, staring intensely out the window, small hands holding on to the address of their destination. Because John was unaware of Sherlock staring, the taller boy studied his friend closely, a lump impossibly forming in the back of his throat. What would John say after they confronted the killer? And why was Sherlock allowing this to happen? Sherlock only knew the present. He could not predict the near future no matter how much he wanted to.

"Are we there yet?" John turned and grinned at Sherlock and Sherlock wondered vaguely when John had become so handsome. Had it happened gradually or suddenly? Had John woke up that morning and decided he wanted to be this short smoldering human with impossibly dark blue eyes or had Sherlock never noticed before this? John's grin began to fade and he scrunched up his face in concern. "What's wrong? You ok?"

"Yes of course." Sherlock looked down and picked an imaginary piece of lint off his coat. "I was just wondering when you, as a 'human', are going to crash and burn. Isn't that what they say when you collapse in exhaustion?" Sherlock managed a small upturn of his Cupid bowed shaped lips, even though he was aware that with every second that ticked off, he was leading John into a possible death trap.

"Eh, I'm good. Even though I never did get that breakfast." John scrubbed a hand over his face. "Or a shower. God, I hope I don't smell like a goat." He sniffed an armpit experimentally and came away looking satisfied. "Naw, the deo is still at work."

"Pleasant." Sherlock raised an eyebrow and tugged his coat around himself. "Ah, driver, this is satisfactory." Sherlock leaned forward to tap on the plexiglass partition that separated the riders from the driver. The driver, a black man of indeterminate age shrugged and pulled over.

"That'll be 32 dollars. And some advice. Nothing good can come of you boys being in this neighbourhood this time of day or ever. You sure you don't want me to take you into the Big Apple herself? See a musical? Go on top of the Empire State Building?"

"That isn't necessary. Our business is here." Sherlock nodded and pushed John out the door on to the sidewalk at the same time as he shoved 2 twenty dollar bills at the lecturing cabbie. "Come along, John. We have to walk up 2 more blocks."

John paused as Sherlock went striding off down the walk. The cabbie was right. The neighbourhood was exactly what John had seen in pictures of library books on NYC. Poverty was evident with the boarded up store fronts and the paper and garbage absolutely littering the sidewalk. Trash cans, what there were of them, were overturned and graffiti riddled. There was a car without wheels leaning against the kerb on the other side of the street and doors to what he thought were apartment buildings standing open. There was not a soul on the sidewalk except them.

"Sherlock? Are you...are you sure we are in the right place?" John hurried to catch up with his friend. He felt a shiver down his spine and discounted it as nothing more than unease at their placement. His grandfather's voice began to replay in his head--"never ignore your Little Voice, Johnny. It will save your life someday." Swallowing the lump in his throat, John walked beside Sherlock, having chased after him for more than a half block.

"Absolutely. Ah, yes, across the street and down a bit more."

"What...what are we looking for? Besides, um," John unfolded the paper in his hand "8042 Reed Street Number 6?"

"The occupant, of course, John." Sherlock stared straight ahead, his face an impassive mask from the rolling turmoil he felt inside of him.

"Ah, well, did you tell Lestrade? That we...is he meeting us here?" John tugged on Sherlock's coat sleeve wishing the taller boy would slow down. Lack of sleep and food was not making him very happy at the moment, his hunger hitting him as they walked, and neither was Sherlock's reticence.

"I left him a text." Sherlock enunciated the 't' at the beginning and end of the word. "Let's hope he has a loud text tone."

"Um, well, yeah, but like I said at the house, um, we're not supposed to actually um...catch a murderer, right, Sherlock?" Sherlock said nothing but continued on as if John had said nothing. He stopped suddenly, looking up at a 3 story building that matched all the rest on the street. It was brown brick with sagging windowsills and gutters that had either fallen or been pulled off. One gutter hung askew from the roof, looking like a tormented pipe in the brightening sky. The steps to the front door were crumbling cement and littered with all kinds of debris. John gulped and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Smells funny." John wrinkled his nose and took a deep breath through his mouth. "You sure you want to go in there? We should wait for Lestrade."

"Oh I'm sure he'll venture to find me. He always does." Sherlock took the steps like he was doing Dance Dance Revolution, avoiding the litter and the dark suspicious stains. "Come along, John. We have a murder to solve!"

"Yeah, uh, sure. Be right there..." John carefully picked his way up the steps and followed Sherlock through the door that stood open and on half a hinge. The smell only got stronger, making John want to gag. He pushed up his shirt collar and breathed in the scent of his own sweat faintly tinged with the Gain detergent in which he had laundered the shirt. This wasn't exactly how he thought he would be spending his morning, and yet he wouldn't have it any other way.

 

The creature shifted in its makeshift bed. It could have burrowed deeper into the nest, absorbing the decay and the mottle of the grandiose creation but it was hungry and needing to feed again. Any semblance of human had passed a few days ago after it had ripped the liver out of the record store owner and it tried to use its dulling brain to form another plan. The quest was farther away now. It needed to move in the shadows and in the moist and it was not sure it could do that to get to the liver it needed to consume. Once, it had been bipedal and formed but now it was not so sure what it resembled. A monster? It was not the monster. The monster was what was gnawing inside it, wanting to feed to eat to grow and live. Not much time left. It had to crawl back into the nest and sleep but first to feed and gorge and satisfy what it needed.

Damn the police department. The authorities had always been a thorn in its side and it hoped that they would all burn in rotting hell. Oh yes, things like it had a rightful place to exist and live off hosts. It was a throwback to an earlier time when things like it would gather and feed and tear and destroy and consume but mankind had shoved their kind to the darkness and to fugitive night time raids, slithering through pipes and valves and sewers and grates only to feed off the host of that smell, the rich blood and bile smell that made it live. 

Shifting again, this time closer to the entrance of the nest, it paused. It had created the hole in the wall, tunneling into the framework and the areas between the rotting dryboards. Not much existed out there in the rooms that connected together like a maze, where it sometimes slunk, keeping dark and quiet. Nobody bothered it here. Nobody bothered it thinking that it was Bill Upton, a postal carrier who had died long ago, created by it when it was in its proper frame of mind, when it could think beyond the need to eat and live. Bill Upton, the human who collected a modest sum of money from the government and who once had been a productive member of society. Bill Upton, the persona who paid the rent on time and never ventured too far away from the apartment at least not in Bill Upton form.

Suddenly. Oh yes, the smell. THE UNDENIABLE SMELL OF ....FOOD....it didn't have to go to a victim. A meal was coming to it.

 

"What apartment are we looking for?" John said to himself, seeing as how Sherlock was in a sudden mood and had not said anything since they had ventured inside the building. They had walked up stairs that led to the 3rd floor, where one William Upton lived. John frowned at the piece of paper in his hands. "Sherlock, do you think--" John stopped mid sentence. He looked about for his friend but Sherlock was nowhere. Not behind him. Not down the creepy smelly hallway. Not up the hallway. John's heart began to hammer in his chest and he felt the acrid taste of adrenaline in his throat. "Sherlock?" Nothing. "SHERLOCK!" He hissed loudly. Someone down the hall was watching television. John heard the sounds of Ridiculousness. "Well, that's appropriate because this is truly ridiculous."

John took a deep breath and then regretted it. "Oh." He pulled his collar up again and clutched the paper tighter in his hand. He was sweating though from fear or the heat of the hallway he wasn't sure. "Sherlock! Where are you?"

The door in front of him opened. It opened. John stood there, feeling a thousand emotions prickling his skin. He waited for the tenant, this Bill Upton to appear but there was no one. John peeked around the door cautiously. "Hello? Uh, Mr. Upton? We were...uh...wondering if we could uh talk to you..." John turned his head and cupped his hands over his mouth to make himself louder. "SHERLOCK!!!"

There was a bang down the hall and John jumped, coppery mouth and dry lipped and weak kneed.

"Shuttup!!!"

"Sorry." John called out and then looked into the room in front of him. No sign of anyone there. Should he go in? Would it impress Sherlock if he did? John felt he was certainly as brave as his friend, even if Sherlock WAS a vampire. And truly, was Sherlock REALLY a vampire? That thing he did with his teeth. Was it a party trick? Was the story he told John just smoke and mirrors to what, impress John? No, the story seemed real enough and the emotion on Sherlock's face when he told John was nothing less than real. So where, now, was his buddy the vampire? John swallowed and took a step forward. Then another step. Suddenly, John was propelled into the air and saw the ceiling and the hanging shards of drywall from the many holes in it. It was like the feeling he had when he was little and jumping on his neighbour's trampoline with Harry. He had stretched into the sky and felt like he was flying. But this was pain and that was not. How he had been lifted so incredibly high was beyond all thought and reason. John opened his eyes and saw black and black was all he saw.

 

It cradled him like a treasure. Oh the smell and the feel of him in its arms! And young, so young which meant he would be tender and juicy when he was opened up. It tore off the clothes that prevented it from feeding through the taut tanned flesh of his stomach cavity. Opening its mouth, revealing rows and rows of jagged pointed yellowing teeth it prepared to feast. A bit of drool dripped off one of its teeth and pooled there on the warm flesh. Oh how good it smelled and looked! It could take its time eating from this human boy!

"Get off him you creature of hell!!!!" Sherlock pulled the grey white form from John, vision red with anger and flooding over with black. His John. His John. His John.

His John who was lying still and silent. His John whose shirt was torn off him. His John who had the right type of blood to lure the creature out.

The creature scuttled warily back around looking at its nest that was behind Sherlock, who stood resolutely in the way. Sherlock was at his full height, coat billowing about his lithe form like a hero's cape, his eyes red and his mouth open to reveal the sharp fangs of his canines. It registered that Sherlock was dangerous and not too much removed from itself. It hissed and stood up on hind legs that were almost one, fused together like a snake tail. It waved its claws at Sherlock, who moved aside  warily but did not retreat.

"You want the sanctity of your nest?" His words were practically spit out with his anger. "You'll have to go through me."

It attacked then, claws and teeth hurling towards the tall boy with fury and fright. It wanted to survive, its dim brain registering that to get to the nest and bury itself it would have to fight. Sherlock dodged the creature but felt the claws rip through his coat and into the flesh on his arm. He uttered an oath that he was normally loathe to say, not given to vulgar language, but this was his COAT, dammit and it was EXPENSIVE! The creature was also fast, belying its stupid brain, and Sherlock spun and aimed a ballet kick hard at its upper torso. The creature went spinning around and down to the floor, reeking of bile and dripping some whitish substance that had fallen off when Sherlock made contact with his foot. And there went his shoes. Growling now, Sherlock remembered that it was not about the coat and the shoes but about his John Watson, with the rich and rare type blood, his John Watson that Sherlock had tricked into being the bait to lure the creature out, his John Watson who was laying there unconscious, possibly hurt.

With an explosion of fury, Sherlock reached into the creature who was still stunned by the kick, and pulled hard. It made an ungodly noise and tried to claw at Sherlock's face but the detective was too fast and ducked down, then countered with a mighty push of his fist directly into the middle of the creature where it seemed that the flesh was weak and coming apart. Another scream, and Sherlock matched it with a shout of rage that rattled the window frames. Dully, in the distance, Sherlock heard Lestrade's voice but he could not stop until this thing was destroyed.

It tried to hold on to Sherlock, wrapping claws into his coat and Sherlock heard the teeth snap so close to his neck that the creature's breath threatened to make him swoon, it was that putrid. With one last push, Sherlock had the creature down to the floor and was standing on it with his full weight. He pushed his one foot down, hard, and heard something snap and then there was nothing but a sound like water dripping and Sherlock's panting breath.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" Lestrade pulled Sherlock off the still form of the slug like creature. "WHAT IS that thing? Is this what...killed the record store owner?" He waved his men over and they stood ringed around it like it would suddenly come to life.

"A throwback to some other time, I think. Either that, or a genetic experiment gone wrong. It has lived for hundreds of years, feeding off people in NYC. I don't think it has been anywhere else." Sherlock studied his coat, then remembered with a shock that his John was laying in a heap somewhere. He whirled around, explanations to Lestrade forgotten, and was relieved to see John sitting up, talking to an officer Sherlock dimly remembered as Donavan. She was patting his arm and talking in low tones, and Sherlock felt the rise of unbidden jealousy. He walked over to John and crouched down, impatiently swatting Donavan's hand away from  his John. John's upper torso was naked and vulnerable looking. Sherlock tried to quell the rush of emotions that threatened to force him to lower his head and rub against that taut flesh.

"Sherlock?" John looked up at him and Sherlock waited for the words to come. He was cringing inside, knowing that when John realized that Sherlock had used him as bait to catch this creature, that John might possibly never want to be with him again.

Words that wound. Words that hate. Words that might mean John would never want to see Sherlock again. Words that would kill him because absence was so real it would be murderous if Sherlock could not see John. Slightly breathy, then, Sherlock began to speak, knowing that it might be all for naught and John might just send him away because John would be so mad that Sherlock had used John to trap the creature.

"I had to use you, John. I suspected it would be weak without feeding for a few days, so I did some research and found that the concentric circle I made on my bedroom wall pointed directly here, to this building, and then because I hacked into the Social Security website, I found out that William Upton lived here for like 80 years, even through the apartment controversy of the 80's and 90's. His rent was always paid on time, always just taken out from his bank account, but there were no other charges, no tv or internet or food bills. His account was merely to sustain him and give him a home where he ...it...could build its nest.."

"Oh quit deducing, you solid Berk, and help me up." John rubbed his head and frowned. "Ow." Donavan immediately began to check his head, gently parting John's hair and peering closely.

"I can do that, Madam." Sherlock pushed her aside and resumed the search through the fine blonde strands of John's hair. Sherlock felt the green twinge of jealousy rising unbidden through his brain.

"Yeah, after you set up your ONE 'friend: as bait. Honestly, John, I would certainly not be HIS friend if I were you!"

Her tone made Sherlock look up and slide his eyes from her head to her toes. He stopped looking for any cuts on John's head; instead, he cradled the smaller boy next to him, making John grunt in surprise as his head was buried in the folds of Sherlock's coat.

"Hey! Sherlock...what...-"

"Be quiet, John." Sherlock's eyes were silver ice as he regarded the police officer. She stood her ground but swallowed nervously as Sherlock's steely gaze swept over her. "SO. Overlooked for promotion once again. Have you ever considered it's because you're sleeping with a married man--Anderson will never leave his wife, she's the one with all the money--or maybe it's because you failed target practice because you can't hold on to a Glock after it fires. Could it be because you're weak, no doesn't look like it, you work out in the gym 5 days a week obviously, or could it be because of an event in your past has rendered you unable to hold it without shaking, ah yes, the Market Street robberies, when you could have shot the thief to wound but instead you killed him and then oh no, he wasn't armed it was just a case of mistaken identity. Oh Sally, do run along now. I'm sure your career, or lack of it, is calling you."

 "Sherlock. That wasn't nice." John had sat up, pushing Sherlock away from him and the folds of the now stinky coat. "And your coat smells like...bile...or whatever." He met Sherlock's eyes and Sherlock cringed inwardly waiting for the words to come, the words to hurt and destroy much like he had just done with Sally Donavan. The officer had backed away and was now standing there looking like she could laser beam the floor with her anger.

"I...I know. I realize that using you to catch it...wasn't really cricket..but I didn't expect you to get hurt. I thought we'd both go into the apartment but it...must have...lured you in somehow." Sherlock framed John's face with his large hands and petted his cheeks with soft finger strokes.

"I thought I would be brave and go inside ...before you came back...hey! Where did you go anyways?"

"Looking for Lestrade, who had just pulled up when I confronted the creature." Sherlock continued to stroke John's face.

"Ah, well, I need a shower and some food. We're both a mess." John smiled and Sherlock couldn't resist smiling back. "But that ... thing you did to that lady....it wasn't nice. She was just trying to help me."

"She had her hands on you." Sherlock gritted his teeth. He wanted to scent John and remove all traces of the meddling woman's touches but something told him John would not be patient if he did that. Instead he just looked bored, masking his anxiety over whether or not John really did forgive him.

"She was just...oh God." John suddenly stood up, weaving a bit but looking triumphant. Sherlock stood beside him and reached for a hand. "Are you...jealous?"

"You're still holding on to the address." Sherlock ignored the question and took the crumpled sweaty piece of paper from John's hand and threw it in the direction of the detectives, who were all trying to figure out how to exactly transport the creature to the jail.

"You are, aren't you? That's why you lit into her!"

"Lit? I didn't...what..."

" 'Lit' means tear into her..um...like you just were angry with her so you were mean to her. So you're jealous?"

"No." Sherlock turned away so John would not see the smile that threatened to erupt from his lips. "Lestrade! Do you need our statements?"

John began to laugh and sat suddenly down, allowing the EMT's to drape his shoulders with an ugly couloured orange blanket. "What's this for?" he asked.

"Shock."

"I'm not in shock." But John gratefully pulled it around his shoulders and allowed the paramedics to examine him, finding a lump behind his temple, but nothing broken or cut open. He watched as Sherlock did a balletic dance around the detectives who were still wondering what to do with the creature. As they discussed it, John saw one claw twitch. With a sense of cold horror spreading in his body, John began to walk slowly over to where they were standing, blanket trailing behind him.

 "Guys?" John called out. Nobody turned around. "GUYS?" he said a bit more forcefully. He watched as the creature began to form a single fluid form, and yet none of them saw it because they were too busy talking and looking at each other to do anything. John pulled on Sherlock's sleeve and as the taller boy looked at John, John's face, with the fright changing his pleasant features, made Sherlock look down and see what John was seeing.

"Oh no you don't." Sherlock stepped on the creature's middle again, eliciting a howl and causing the officers to draw their guns simultaneously. It shimmered and shook but did not go anywhere.

"We need to have this contained!" Lestrade called out. He radioed for assistance from the station, asking them to get them some kind of a transport that would contain a shifting mass of flesh and goo. After he was done, he met Sherlock's amused gaze.

"What?  I mean, what else can I say?" Lestrade clapped Sherlock on the back. "After it's gone I want statements."

"Can it wait?" Sherlock wrapped an arm around John who was still dully looking at the creature. Noticing this, Sherlock pulled John away towards the door. "He's exhausted and I'm ready for a wash."

"Well..." Lestrade hesitated but looked at John who was now ashen and shivering. "Yeah, I'll get someone to take you home." He quickly signaled for one of the patrol officers and pointedly told him to take both boys to Sherlock's home.

"Do you want me to carry you?" Sherlock whispered, still holding John close. He felt the shivers in the boy's body. "You're not well? Do you need to go to the A and E?"

"Stop asking me so many questions and just," John exhaled noisily. "Take me home."

"Alright but it you want or need to go to the hospital, we can go. I will gladly--"

"Sherlock!" John reached up and cupped Sherlock's face in his hands. He stroked the smooth skin gently with trembling fingers as his eyes met Sherlock's gaze. John was telling Sherlock how he felt without any words. There was only silence between them but something so substantial passed in John's worshipful look that Sherlock smiled and nuzzled John's fingers. John pulled Sherlock's head down towards him and their lips met in a soft chaste kiss. Hand in hand, then, they followed the officer out of the apartment and down to the waiting car.

 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

It was nearly 6 PM by the time John awoke. Somehow he was clean, dressed in loungers that were too long in the sleeves and pant legs, and his stomach felt full. He blinked his eyes and then remembered. Sherlock.

John stretched and threw off the blanket and duvet, but as he sat up, he felt a soft throb in his head and he rubbed his hand over the lump behind the temple. He tried to remember the books he had read at the library about concussions and brain injuries. Carefully, he took stock.

No double vision.

No nausea.

No trouble moving his limbs.

No memory loss (he still remembered that stench of the creature!)

No trouble with forming words. (He spoke out loud, reciting the alphabet)

OK, then, it was nothing but a sore spot told the fun side of his brain.

But you were knocked out, said the logical side.

Sore sore nothing more, sang the fun part.

Better to err on the side of caution than to end up dead on the bed, toned the logical part.

"John?"

John jumped not expecting that voice to interrupt the war in his brain cells.

"Sherlock. Wow. What time is it?" John rubbed his arms and wiggled his feet around as he sat on Sherlock's bed.

"After 6. You've slept almost 12 hours. That's a full cycle, John." Sherlock sat beside him and looked straight ahead at the poster of Fidel Castro on his wall. John followed Sherlock's gaze and began to laugh.

"Only YOU would have a poster of HIM on your wall." John chuckled.

"What's wrong with Fidel Castro?  Well. Besides terminal illness that his brother and his advisors all deny." Sherlock stood and wheeled a cart over. On it were 2 cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. Some were regular digestives while others were double stuffed Oreo cookies. Another plate held a toasted cheese sandwich, still bubbling cheese, steaming hot from the skillet. "Hungry?"

"I am!" John enthusiastically hunched closer to the cart and carefully picked up half a sandwich. "Do you want the other half?"

"I ..." Sherlock hesitated and then shrugged. He picked up the other half of the sandwich and took a bite. It was good, better than he remembered them to be.

"Good to see you eating. You're too skinny. Make me feel like a whale." John was chewing happily, playing with the cheese that was sticking to his fingers. "Where did you get that?"

"The...sandwich..well, cook made it and--"

"No, Sherlock, I meant the poster." Sherlock looked blankly at John. "You know, the poster of Fidel. Where'd you get it? It's not like they sell stuff like that in stores."

"Ohhhhh..." Sherlock took another bite and then licked a finger appreciatively. "Mycroft got it for me. He probably asked Castro to pose for it."

"Nuh uh." John countered.

"If that meant you don't agree with me, then you don't know Mycroft. If it meant something else, let me assure you it's a most unintelligent sound." Sherlock nodded to himself in agreement and pretended not to notice how warm John felt next to him. It was as though the heat was from a sun and Sherlock was meant to bask in it.

"Nuh uh means no, yeah, but um, everyone says it." John waved his sandwich at the poster. "I bet even good ole Fidey there says it."

"Fidey???" Sherlock repeated.

"Yeah, you know...Fidey. He's a close personal friend of your brother's so..I mean, why not?"

Sherlock turned his head and locked eyes with John. John was grinning his radiant luminescent Watson grin, the grin that turned Sherlock to butter inside, and reaching out with his napkin towards Sherlock to wipe off a crumb of cheese. Sherlock felt the passion rise in him unbidden and took a deep breath. He was so close to John that he could see the individual pores in John's face and count the eyelashes that rimmed those impossible eyes. It was now or never. He leaned in for the kiss.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sexy times ahead in Chapter 15!! You have been warned!!!!


	15. A Matter Of Feeling/Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steal away in the morning;  
> Love's already history to you.  
> It's a habit you're forming.  
> This body's desperate for something new.  
> Just A Matter of Feeling  
> These moments of madness are sure to pass,  
> And tears will dry as you're leaving.  
> Who knows, you might find something to last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised some sexy times ahead...please pass GO if you are offended by male slash...

"Wait. Aren't you going to....SHERLOCK!" John resisted the taller boy who was pulling on John's jacket sleeve, maneuvering him upstairs.

"Come along, John. It's time for bed."

"Wait!" Sherlock was like a mad tornado, all limbs and legs and coat as he propelled John past the second floor landing. Stubbornly, John grabbed hold of the bannister and pulled Sherlock into a sudden stop. The boy looked down at John, standing as he was on the upper step, exaggerating the height difference between them all the more. "You just can't PULL me along like I'm some kind of...dog!"

"What?" Sherlock blinked rapidly and his hand fell from John's sleeve. Confusion was replaced by a flash of regret. "Sorry? What am I doing wrong? You kissed me. I thought that indicated an interest--"

"--Yes, Sherlock, I AM interested." John palmed his own hair and winced when he touched the sore spot behind his temple. "I'm just...tired and grubby and...sore...and hungry..." John sighed and looked down at his trainers. He hoped he could convey to Sherlock that sex was exciting and while John wondered what it would be like with a boy like himself, he also thought that if he hit a horizontal position he would fall asleep. "I'm human. You're...not so much."

"John." Sherlock murmured his name and it was like velvet. "I apologise. Of course. First a bath for you. Then some food. And sleep. You'll stay here of course. Shall I have my valet get your belongings from the dorm?"

"Sherlock..." John let the warning tone in his voice rein the tall genius in a bit. Sherlock bowed his head and gave John a curt nod.

"We'll talk about when you're moving."

"We'll TALK about IF I'm moving."

"John, don't be dull. Of course you're moving in with me." Sherlock then began to descend the stairs and paused beside John. Sherlock pulled John close until their chests were pressing tightly together. Sherlock felt John's heart beat, quicker now, and heard the roar of the blood through John's vessels. But he also sensed the overwhelming fatigue and weariness that radiated from John, so Sherlock kissed the top of John's head chastely. "Of course. You need a rest. Go on up to my room and I'll get you some food. DON'T lay down on my bed in those dirty clothes. DO strip and have a wash. Be right up."

"Sherlock..." John protested because he felt he had to but the other boy was galloping down the stairs, the coat billowing out to follow him. "Don't fuss." John finished and then continued to climb the steps, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other as he scowled down at the carpet. He reached the second floor, where he knew Sherlock's room was, and fought off a wave of dizziness. It was because he hadn't eaten, he reasoned. And his head was a bit wonky as well. Halfway down the hallway, past a set of gaudy double doors, to a single solid closed door with a posted sign on it, simply saying DO NOT DISTURB. John turned the knob and pushed the door open with his shoulder wincing a bit with the energy he was expending, and wondered what Sherlock was going to feed him. He hoped there were no more granola bars left. John didn't think his roiling stomach could handle that. What had Sherlock told him? Wash first, don't sit on the bed in those clothes. John looked down at his jeans and gave a soft 'oh' at what he saw. Dark stains were all around his crotch and thigh area, and although his chest was still bare of the shirt the creature had ripped, he was huddled under the orange shock blanket from the EMT's. It was a bit soggy on the bottom having been dragged through the stuff in the room.

Suddenly it was all too much for John. Panic and nerves had the best of him and he ran for the bathroom, holding his mouth tightly with his palm, until he slid on the floor in front of the toilet and lifted the seat. Hanging on to the porcelain bowl rim, John vomited the meager contents of his stomach and then had a couple of dry heaves just for good measure. He sat back on the floor, legs bent around the toilet, and rubbed his face. He was so tired; his stomach was still having a pyro show of its own and he didn't think it was a good idea to try and stand and leave the position he was in just in case he threw up again. John leaned his face against the cool porcelain and stifled a sob. He was too old to cry but he felt the tears prick his eyes anyways and viciously rubbed at them with balled up fists.

"John. Let me help you up." Strong hands under his arms lifted John like he was nothing at all and suddenly, John was sitting on the toilet and the lid was down and he was being undressed like a doll. "You're clammy."

"No...no I'm no...Sherlock..stop..." John pushed Sherlock's hands away. Shouldn't he be dressing or undressing himself? He began to shiver as the air hit his naked body and at once he was aware that he had nothing on and Sherlock was staring at him. "What?" John said through clenched teeth. Mother of God, he wanted heat and wasn't he promised a shower? "I need...I need to wash. I need a shower...a bath..." Another wave of nausea hit him and John went down on his knees again in front of the toilet, frantically scrabbling up the lid in time to have a painful round of dry heaves. With tears in his eyes from the effort of feeling his guts clenching and unclenching, John sat up and moaned.

"You are naked on the floor. Let me help you, John." Sherlock again lifted John with hands under John's arms and held him up. Effortlessly, as if John weighed nothing, Sherlock carried him to the tiled enclosure that was Sherlock's shower. It was quartz and marble, pinkish and white and grey and stones and posh. A series of showerheads ran down both sides of the walls and in the middle of the smooth cool floor was a drain that was masked as a small whirly pile of stones. John looked dully at it and then realized that somewhere in there, possibly when he was worshipping the porcelain god for the last time, Sherlock had stripped too and was as naked as he was.

"Oh good. A group shower. I haven't had one of these since primary school." John felt himself being held to Sherlock's body, felt the length of Sherlock's cock brush against the back of his thigh. "On any other day I would be impressed," John said, "but today the only thing I want is to be clean and sleeping. Is that so bad?" John jumped as the water hit his exposed skin. It was warm and pulsing and he leaned against the Sherlock wall behind him, bonelessly and in a stupor. "Nice. Feels nice."

Sherlock was careful, supporting the smaller boy with one arm around his waist while cleaning him with a flannel with the other hand. When Sherlock shampooed John's head, using again the one handed method, John murmured something about the scent and Sherlock smiled. "I get it specially made by a woman in the Village."

"Of course you do." John sighed and leaned into the shampoo. Oh those strong long fingers were soothing, and Sherlock was careful to avoid the lump from his fall and the stitch from his fall off the bike. "It's probably some kind of hoodoo voodoo magic. The person who makes it is probably a werewolf."

"John, please, don't be ridiculous." Sherlock continued washing carefully, making sure to turn and rinse his John doll when the soap got too foamy.

"Mmmm. Bet you could just fall asleep in this steam huh?"

"I...I don't think I ever did." Sherlock hid a small smile. John, in his exhaustion and hunger, was quite silly. "Now then, off with the water and let me grab a towel."

John made a small noise of protest as Sherlock wrapped him in a fluffy towel that smelled like linens. John inhaled noisily and pulled the ends around his own shoulders. He was more than able to form coherent sentences now, now that he had had a good wash up. Next in line, he hoped was something to eat so his stomach would settle. Sherlock, too, was drying off and John watched him with interest.

Sherlock was long and lean, ribs and vertebrae showing, collar bone sharp, ridges of shoulders defined and everywhere was grace and length. Wet curls fell from his forehead like unraveling spirals and John resisted the urge to reach out and somehow put them back into some sort of pattern. As Sherlock turned, John caught sight of Sherlock's cock, riding long from a small nest of dark wiry hair that somehow seemed fluffed up around the base.

"You're beautiful," John whispered, and truly he meant it.

"John." Sherlock stepped forward so he was directly facing John without an inch between them. He cupped John's face with one large hand and smiled, just an upturn of his lips, but a smile nonetheless.

"Can we go to bed now?" John took a deep breath and exhaled noisily. He wasn't hungry any longer. The last thing he wanted was to eat. In fact, John looked like a sleepy child who had been pulled up in the middle of a nap.

"Of course. But you may want to eat first?"

"No. Sleep first. I don't think...my stomach.." John held out his arms towards Sherlock and the taller boy easily picked up John in a kind of honeymoon pose, and walked him over to the big bed. One handed, he pulled the sheet and blankets down and then gently placed John into the makeshift nest. John might have been asleep before he hit the bed. Sherlock carefully snuggled in beside him, not needing the sleep but intending to watch John Watson from up close, The boy never ceased to fascinate him.

==============================================================================

 

When John was 6 years old, the firefighters in their county decided to hold a fund raiser to buy a new pump and ladder truck. It was pricey but a luxury that was needed due to the increase of population. More and more people were locating in the small suburb of Potter's Bar; more buildings were going up, and with more buildings came the ominous threat of something going wrong and causing fire. The firefighters decided to hold a carnival to raise the money, and commissioned an amusement company that specialized in traveling rides to build on their carnival grounds (really just a plot of land behind the fire house). John had been fascinated by the building process as well as the colourful steel and aluminum girders that made up the framework of most of the rides. One that particularly caught his eye was a contraption called the "flying swings."

Now these particular flying swings were portable enough to be toted from fair to festival so they were not high per se but what they lacked in height they more than made up for in speed and width. John and Harry had ridden their cycles over to watch the carnies erect the rides, pounding stakes and steel lengths with hammers and in some cases the men would operate a weird type of backhoe that pushed the framework up into the sky to connect with the other pieces. John could hardly wait to ride the swings, and so he watched and waited for 3 days until the carnival opened and he and Harry, armed with 5 pounds sterling , practically flew through the main gate and up to the ride ticket window. Harry opted for the Spider, a carnival staple with cars attached to long spider like arms that were coated steely black and all lit up with bright white bulbs. The Spider was a favourite of carnival goers because the black cars at the ends of the long arms spun and twisted and whirled making the occupants either lose their lunches or lose their balance, and both sometimes.

 John would have none of that. His destination was the swings.

They rose like a column of suspended seats, all held by two wires running from the arms that reached out from the main column. John had to hop to reach the seat as at 6 years old, he was small with short legs. The carny fastened him in and when he felt the strap around his middle, he felt a thrill run the length of his body.

The ride started out slowly but picked up momentum. John's feet never touched the ground and by the third pass, he was on the outside of the grouping, flying, literally flying in his seat through the night air, hands holding tightly to the ropey wires on either side of his swing. His stomach lurched and then fluttered down peacefully but the feeling in his whole body was intense, almost a palatable ache, and even at his young age, not knowing how an orgasm would feel, this was as close as it got for him to feel total satisfaction.

John never forgot that feeling, even when he grew too old to ride the ride as it was not "cool" any longer. Somewhere inside of him he always remembered the feeling of flying and the thrill that it gave him.

He was riding the swings now. Still not totally awake and thinking it was a dream, John squirmed and thrust his hips up. Oh that felt so good. What was that? Wet. Sucking. He was hollow inside, still on the ride, still holding on to the wires no wait hair he felt hair and

"Sherlock!" John moaned and tumbled over the edge. He was in the air again suspended, feet weightless as he lifted up and came down riding in waves and slick ocean currents and the sucking mouth on his cock did not stop.

Sherlock continued to lick John's twitching softening cock, the tip of his tongue running along the sensitive area of his glans, drawing a long moan out of John. The hands on Sherlock's head stilled and then began to pet softly, aimlessly, as John came back from his orgasm. John was laying there, eyes closed, face half framed in the waning light from the window. Sherlock thought the boy had never looked so delicious.

Finally. "Hey." John half sat up, reaching for Sherlock and pulling him up to lay almost on top of him. Sherlock nuzzled John's chest, smelling the essence that was so Johnlike, infused with the scent of the shower soap Sherlock had used. "You didn't have to...I wish I had been awake to enjoy...geez..." Suddenly John felt shy and awkward. He went to cover his reddening face with one hand but Sherlock caught John's hand and brought it down to his lips where he sucked on a finger. John drew a sharp intake of breath and Sherlock looked up into those dark eyes.

"I wanted to do it before you said not to...I ....never did that with...anyone.."Sherlock was stammering, John thought with amazement. Calm and cool and utterly gorgeous Vampire Sherlock was acting like it was his first time at the prom.

"Amazing. You...I..." John's turn now to be speechless. "Kiss me please?"

Sherlock slid the rest of the way up John's prone body, dragging the wet tip of his hard cock against the warmth of John's leg. John gasped and cradled Sherlock's face with his hands fingers ghosting over the sharp cheekbones and the arched eyebrows. John didn't think he had ever seen anyone so beautiful before. Not in magazines or on the telly. Not on the streets or on the websites that Harry frequently looked at, she ogled the girls who advertised the latest in designer wear. Although John wasn't experienced in the art of lovemaking with a man, he thought that there was nothing he wouldn't do with this lovely boy with whom he had trusted his life with on their adventures. Sherlock inched closer and John lifted his head to kiss those open lips. Warm and wet and inviting, all the sensations all at once and more besides. John arched against Sherlock and pulled his head closer so they were actually meshed. John ran  his tongue along Sherlock's bottom lip and the other boy opened his mouth. John tentatively darted his tongue inside and tasted himself, bitterly salty and yet not repulsive in the least. If anything, John thought, it was sexy. Sherlock was also tasting John, and their tongues slid lazily against each other as they kissed, making sloppy noises that only spurred John on. John felt himself becoming aroused again, cock starting to harden with the fine joining of their mouths. But he knew Sherlock needed something, so John slid his one hand between their bodies and tentatively touched Sherlock's cock.

"John!" Sherlock half raised off John, breaking their kiss and bowing his head so his curls spilled into his face. He looked up and met John's eyes. His want was so apparent, pupils huge and lips open and wet. Gently, John ran a finger the length of Sherlock's hard pole and then grasped the base firmly. Sherlock made a noise like he was broken and John pulled the boy down again so their chests were pressed together. Sherlock's hair was a fuzzy soft nest on John's bare flesh and with his other hand, John began to caress the dark curls. "John..." Sherlock groaned, raw and whiney. His hips began to thrust into John's hand.

John gently ran his fingers over the glans and smeared the wetness the length of Sherlock's turgid shaft.  Sherlock made little noises into John's skin but his hips never stopped canting down and up. Finally John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock and began to fist it, slowly then with more vigor, the noises from Sherlock and the thrusts spurring John on to complete his task.  Sherlock held on to John's shoulders and raised his hips so John would have better access to his cock, and John began to fist harder and faster as Sherlock began to shake and moan.

"Almost..oh God..John! JOHN!" Sherlock came with a shout. Hot cum seemed to fly from his jerking shaft and coated John's hand and their stomachs where they were joined together. John lazily spread the jism around with his fingers, making sure to coat Sherlock's deflating shaft. Sherlock continued to move his hips and then collapsed on top of John, trembling with the afterglow.

"Sherlock." John kissed the boy's hair and let his partner raise his head and meet for another kiss. They licked each other's teeth and playfully dueled tongues until Sherlock heard John's breath hitch.

"Do you trust me, John?" Sherlock asked, his eyes pin points of silvery blue in the darkness of the bedroom.

"Yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading this. I am flattered and chuffed....Xx.


	16. A Matter Of Feeling Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock once again find each other irresistible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of PART ONE of the series Sometimes We Make Promises We Never Mean To Keep. Second part will be started tomorrow (7/18/14) and will find our boys in Venice embarking on a rather scary adventure, worse than the bile monster. Thanks for the great encouragement. You all rock!

Sherlock turned onto his side, taking the smaller boy with him. Their arms were tangled and legs lay askew on one another and the young vampire thought he had never been so happy as this. John was resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder, breath warm against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock closed his eyes, listening and FEELING the heartbeat, the rhythmic intake and exhale of John's respiration, and the strong pulse that beat lazily within the boy's human body. Sometimes, Sherlock missed his own heartbeat and breathing in and out. When Mycroft had asked him once, several years back, if Sherlock had any stray thoughts about being mortal again, Sherlock had just shrugged and said it did not matter. Mycroft had given Sherlock a LOOK, and with that, the conversation ended.

But if anything was good about being, well, undead, then it was Sherlock's risk taking and his absence of care as far as ensuring his own safety. After all, he couldn't actually BE killed, unless someone wanted to go to a lot of trouble to-- stab him directly in the heart while he slept, using a pure silver stake that had never been treated with chemicals, then lop off his head with a silver razor that once again had never been used and had been BLESSED by some holy person, THEN separate his head and body in separate graves on hallowed ground beneath an oak tree-- well, it was all a matter of fussy business and desperate planning. In his present body, he might always be young and equally youthful looking (although he could pass for 20 on a good day), but he was also never going to get any fatal illnesses or be sick another day in his eternal life. That was as good as a pass, he thought.

But then there was John Watson. And whatever was he to do with that quandary? The question begged at the recesses of his mind palace but he quickly filed it away between 'regarding later' and 'examined' in the palace's hallway. For now, he had John, and the boy was both gentle and strong in his arms and Sherlock wanted desperately to find the place in the middle.

"John." Sherlock brushed his lips against John's hair and cupped the back of the boy's neck. The skin there was tanned and soft and hairless. "Velvet. Like the rabbit."

John stiffened slightly as if he were just ready to pay attention and then chuckled. "Like the rabbit? The Velveteen Rabbit I suppose you're talking about? Silly." John reached between them and began to stroke Sherlock's hairless chest. His inquisitive fingers traced the ridges of Sherlock's prominent ribs, then tenderly ran a circle around Sherlock's navel. John felt Sherlock's interest before his hand moved further south to run his fingertips along the fluffy hair at the base of Sherlock's hard penis.

"Oh!" Sherlock huffed and thrust forward against that hand with those wonderful fingers. John's breathing also quickened. "John." The boy's name was honey on Sherlock's tongue. His name, his face, his body, his emotions and his pain and sorrow and joy and laughter...all of it JOHN. If this wasn't love, then Sherlock knew he would never know it.

"I love your...cock..." John whispered as if his dulcet tones could hide his own arousal.

"Does it please you?" Sherlock murmured against John's ear, causing John to shudder with delight. The breath was moist and felt good against the shell of his ear.

"In many ways." John squeezed the base of Sherlock's hard penis and his partner bucked his hips. "You are so big." Down the shaft his fingers roamed, showing no mercy at finding all of the sensitive areas and rubbing the soft skin around the turgid pole. John tapped on the end of Sherlock's cock then with small strokes, painted the shaft with the leaking fluid at the tip. Sherlock's grip on John's shoulders increased and he pressed his head against John's neck, the pulse of John's life beneath his sharpening teeth. Oh to break open the skin and drink, drink until he was satiated ...

But this was John, his John, and only a taste, only a small taste a little drop or two, John wouldn't mind, he wouldn't care

Sherlock moaned and sunk his fangs into the juncture of John's neck and shoulder, pulling back with great effort so there were no gaping wounds just pinpricks really. He stared at the blood beginning to well and heard John whimper. Sherlock touched the openings with his tongue tip and then felt the rich flavor envelope his senses. Coppery and heady and full of tea and sweet things and a field of sunflowers bent to the wind, all of that was John his John his John and oh what was happening to his cock...

John stroked Sherlock rhythmically bringing more gasps from his bed partner. John felt the odd suction at his neck and then closed his eyes as a lightheadedness overtook him. He was drowning in pleasure and this made him bold, so he tentatively rubbed a digit beneath Sherlock's cock to Sherlock's ballsac.

"JOHN." Sherlock hissed and he jerked his head back away from John's neck. The pleasure was so intense it was making him throb all over. and his cock was aching with heavy intent. John rubbed then fisted back on Sherlock's cock, down, then up, down then up, stroking and seeking the spots that made Sherlock's eyes close and his fangs bite his own lip.

Suddenly John found himself flat on his back and under Sherlock. The taller boy's eyes were backlit with a fire of green and blue sparks. His fangs were white against the backdrop of his blood smeared lips. My blood, John thought. That's my blood. John reached up to bring Sherlock down against him, wanting the contact with his own hard cock but Sherlock ducked down and began to kiss a trail past John's navel to where his cock was waving in the air.

"No no no" John felt himself pulling at Sherlock's head but Sherlock skipped John's cock and went right between John's legs, all fingers and probing tongue to wet the quivering opening with its ring of muscle so tender and so fierce. John went rigid then his hips moved off the bed and his legs spread, up and over Sherlock's shoulders. John threw his arms back and gripped the headboard with tight fists. Oh the pleasure in that spot!

Sherlock teased John's opening with his tongue then flattened it out and thrust into the tight walls. John was gasping and practically planking in bed. Moving his tongue in and out with bolder strokes, Sherlock, at the same time, reached between his own legs and found the rhythm to stroke himself in time with his tongue, imagining himself moving in and out of John, claiming the small boy. While John's ankles beat against Sherlock's shoulders, Sherlock opened John up even more and pressed his face against the muscular ass cheeks so he could effectively rim John.

"Oh God oh God Sherlock Sherlock please please please..." John canted, incoherent with pleasure, the fire in his loins spreading to his body. He was on fire, that was it, he was on fire and he was ablaze and alight and Sherlock was the match.

Sherlock flicked his tongue deep and fisted his own pole, feeling the tide rising and unbidden as he drowned with John. With a cry, John stiffened and pressed down on Sherlock's head, fingers demanding in Sherlock's curls, pushing that face with the talented tongue into himself while his cock jerked a load of cum all over his own stomach and thighs.

Sherlock rose and loomed over John who was laying there panting, his own pleasure almost overwhelming. Taking his own cock into his hand, Sherlock thrust the tip against John's opening, managing to move past the tight muscle only minuscule but it was more than enough to send Sherlock over the edge and he came with a strangled cry. John had arched beneath him, holding on to him while he found his primal pleasure.

It was a few minutes before either of them moved again, and it was John who found any coherent thought first.

"My Sherlock," he whispered, tightening his muscles as the spent cum leaked out of his hole. Sherlock responded with a sound between sleepy and awake so John simply stroked the taller boy's back, drawing little circles on the white flesh with his fingertips. "You are incredible. I never...thought...I would ever.." John swallowed looking for the words. He would ever what? Sleep with another boy? Be with another boy? Do THIS with another boy? But this wasn't a boy...it was Sherlock. And Sherlock wasn't just a boy.

"Mmmm, we need to get you moved in." Sherlock raised his head from against John's chest. Dried blood flaked around his lips and his fangs were still out. John traced the tips with an inquisitive finger just as Sherlock moved to kiss him. "We can do this all the time. Well, when we aren't solving crimes."

John laughed and Sherlock thought it was like music. The smaller boy was such a delight. Everything he did made Sherlock happy. "Well, yeah, um, we can solve crimes. That was pretty cool. But we still have to go to school." John sighed and simply hugged Sherlock. "I guess I can move in here. I mean, though, what will um your brother think?"

"Mycroft?" Sherlock said the name like it was a poison and his lips curled disdainfully. "I do what I want."

"Yeah but um he's still your older brother and-" John stopped, noticing the look on Sherlock's face. "Oh my God, you spoiled Berk!"

"What?" Sherlock rolled off John and half sat up, looking a bit perturbed. John poked him in the ribs, causing Sherlock to double over with feigned pain and then grab John and pull John over on himself. John felt the wet stickiness on both their stomachs and grimaced.

"Gross."

"Just body fluids." Sherlock began to kiss John's forehead and the side of his face, but John playfully pushed him away and rose up with both arms holding himself up over Sherlock.

"How come yours isn't red coloured?" John asked.

"John, really." Sherlock rolled his eyes and with a devilish smile. snuck his hand between their bodies and smeared his fingers in the cum. He then brought his hand up and slathered the side of John's face with it. This brought an instant reaction from John, who yelped and nimbly jumped up from the bed, rubbing the side of his face and squealing.

"Body fluids, John. OUR body fluids." Sherlock settled back in the bed while John ran into the bathroom. He tuned out the curses and admonishments to focus on his own body and how good it all was.  Damn but this had to be the best sensation he had ever felt in his lifetime. He raised his head and listened as John scrubbed himself with the flannel. The familiar smell of Sherlock's body soap wafted into the bedroom and Sherlock rose and pranced across the bedroom floor like a balletic cat, seeking his drug, in this case, a showering John Watson.

 

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"So. We are going to go to Venice on your birthday." Sherlock sat back in the kitchen chair and kept his cool gaze on John, who was busy mawing through a plate of eggs and home fries. John didn't look up but merely piled more of the potatoes and bits of egg on his fork, then shoveled the big bite into his mouth. "One would think you never got fed." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. John jerked his head up and grinned.

"This is the first real food I have had in hours. Days even. God, it's a wonder I didn't just dry up and blow away!" Back to his plate again, this time, stacking the eggs on first, then grabbing the potatoes. The whole mess was covered with Daddy's brown sauce, and Sherlock thought he had never seen anything quite so disgusting in his life.

"You had a granola bar. Six in fact." Sherlock sat forward and reached across the table as if to touch John's plate but the blond boy pulled it out of reach and hunched over it again protectively. Sherlock thought if John could growl, he would.

"Yeah, thanks for that. You couldn't be bothered to fix anything else." John shoveled the mess into his mouth and chewed happily.

"Well I couldn't fix you anything! I don't cook! Thank goodness Mrs. Hudson is back from Hawaii."

"Yeah, she's cool. And a great cook." John scraped his empty plate with his fork, then pushed his plate away and sat back, eyes dancing and a somewhat goofy smile on his face. "What's all this about Venice?"

"After you move in here--"

"--Sherlock"

"--we can plan it. We have a break right before school starts in earnest. The play rehearsals are put on hold until after holidays. We can fly out of NYC to Venice and then take a cab to the docks where we catch a vaporetto. Spend a few days touring the islands and eating good food before we have to come back here. Besides," Sherlock said cagily. "YOU have always wanted to go there."

"Is there anything about me you DON'T know?" John asked quietly. The mood had taken a subtle shift and Sherlock swallowed and cocked his head when he perceived John's cautionary tone.

"John, I merely meant that I know you have always wanted to see the city and I want to give you the kinds of experiences you wouldn't get if you didn't know me." Sherlock paused and tried to read the other boy's face but John was looking down at his scuffed trainers. "John. Please. Let me do this. I have money. I never spend it. We can go away and have an adventure." Sherlock realized he was begging but didn't care.

"Sherlock, you don't have to take me there. We can hang out here and just...I dunno...go to the cinema.." John trailed off when he noticed the hurt that was in Sherlock's eyes. "OK, we can go. Just...just....I can't...I can't really give you a lot of ..money...that I don't have and.."

"John." Sherlock was up and kneeling beside John, who turned and faced his friend, placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. Oh the beauty of that pale face took John's breath away. Did Sherlock know how gorgeous he was?

"Sherlock." John smiled and then fluffed up Sherlock's hair. Like a cat, Sherlock leaned his head against John's knee, keening into the touches. "Beautiful Sherlock. MY beautiful Sherlock." And then, to break the mood that was seriously getting dramatic, John giggled. "Venice eh?"

"AFTER you move in here. And don't call me a berk. I want to keep you safe and that's the only way I know how." John's hands never stopped touching Sherlock's curls, his fingers unwrapping a languidly dark piece of hair and then letting it fall back to its natural state.

"It won't take me long to pack."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too angsty. I like angst but am not good at writing it. I am a happy endings type of person....stay tuned for the second part of our series in Sometimes We Make Promises We Never Mean To Keep.
> 
> Here is a small preview~~~~~
> 
> "John!!! John?!!?! Where are you?" Sherlock ran through the fog feeling helpless for the first time. Where was his John? They had been together just a moment ago, before the fog moved in and John had said he had heard something moving by the fence. Was that a slithering noise? Sherlock crouched down and tried to ground himself on the island with one hand on the grass. What he felt instead was pain and death and hopelessness and as he stood up, he reeled from the onslaught of despair, tasting the bitter dregs in his mouth.


End file.
